Under The Sun
by Ally Futuras
Summary: Tazim had worked his entire life attempting to fill his father's shoes. To become worthy. To make Malik proud, maybe that would be enough for him to finally return home. Tazim. What a name, he thought. If he were to be accepted into the brotherhood he could not risk the chance of being found out. How Tazim came to be, avenging his father's death.
1. Chapter 1

He'd never be ashamed of where he was from. But then again, where was young Malik from truly?

His childhood was a good one. He was raised in Jerusalem like his mother and uncle had been. Where they themselves had been born. No doubt in his mind, Malik had been blessed even without his father to guide him. Or so most believed. No, perhaps his father had never physically been there to witness him grow, but he was always present within his son. Always guiding him.

Although that had not always been the case. At least not at first.

Malik knew nothing of his father. His mother very rarely, if ever, spoke of him, only that young Malik had been named in his honor. It didn't feel like much of an honor to the young boy at first. He knew nothing of the man who came before him. Had he left them? Abandoned his small family? What did he look like, sound like?

The small seven year old could only imagine as best he could who his father was. On nights that he could not sleep, Malik created his father within his young mind. His father must have been strong, every child sees their father as such after all. He must have had such dark, thick hair. Blacker than anything else in the world, and combed neatly atop his head. Age had caught up to him, perhaps around the time young Malik was born, his father's hair, surely scattered with gray and white strands. His skin giving away to wrinkles yet a lovely dark, sunburned color from walking outdoors all day.

Malik could only imagine his father. If he was correct, that was a different matter. He must have had a deep voice. Soothing enough to have won over his mothers heart but deep, scolding to those who deserved it. Or perhaps he was a happy man. No. He could not be. If his father were a happy man, he would have stayed.

But his mother must have been made a delighted woman by his father. That he was sure of.

Every evening the lovely Amani sat outside their home, her hair loose from her usual tight braid. She adorned her scarves with beads and fixed any tears in young Malik's clothing as well as his two cousin's and uncles. He was not suppose to know, she did it out of sight of course, but Amani weeped for her husband. Malik knew she missed his father. But where had he gone to?

His mother was beautiful. Timid, self conscious but strong underneath her soft exterior. She was firm whenever needed. It wasn't difficult trying to imagine why his father fell in love with her. It would be impossible not to. Malik believed his mother to be an angel sent from the heavens. Even dressed in simple clothing, Amani radiated warmth and such strength.

Malik often played out in the dirt with his two cousins during the day. Rahim was eldest only by a single year, Ilma two years younger than Malik himself. His uncle always went into the markets during the day, selling or trading the cloths his mother adorned. His mother prepared their evening meal inside, humming to herself, content for the evening. Malik never cared much for his uncle. He spoke very little apart from mumbling to himself or Malik's mother, his own wife having succumbed from an illness years prior. He was never quite the same man as he was before then. But still, his uncle was not an angry man. The same could not be said for his son.

"Don't be a coward, Malik!"

Malik hadn't meant to anger Rahim as much as he did. Both boys always challenged one another whenever they played together. Always rough with each other, seeing who could withstand the most. Malik hadn't meant for his punch to be as rough as it was, but Rahim quickly tackled the other boy to the ground. They wrestled in the dirt, their clothing stretched and tore as they pushed and pulled one another, afraid to throw a second punch, they knew their punishment would not be small.

Ilma yelled at them to stop, clutching her ratty doll against her chest, "Stop! You'll both get beat by father!"

It was true, both boys knew it but neither let go of each others clothing, still thrashing about, kicking up dirt. Malik decided to try his luck, however weak he may seem, "She's right. Get off before I make you regret ever being born."

Rahim ignored him as he gave one last shove before standing, forgetting about his cousin and grabbing his sister by the arm to return indoors, "At least we have one to get beat by. You're a bastard's son, Malik. Unwanted."

Malik wiped the light trail of blood from his lip. He'd bitten himself while wrestling. He waited for his cousin's to return indoors before picking himself back up. It wasn't true what Rahim said. He'd said it only to get a rise out of Malik.

 _But why does it hurt so much if it's untrue?_

Malik made sure his tears made no sound. He hid behind a few empty crates. Silent trembles cascading his small body. Alone. He wiped his face with a filthy sleeve before going into his home an hour later. He never cried for his father before. Heaven forbid he start now.

His uncle arrived home some time later. The sun slowly began its descend, illuminating the sky in different shades of orange and red. They sat, eating dinner in silence. Malik could not bother looking up from his meal. Rahim's chin was slightly bruised, barely noticeable in the candlelight. If Malik was lucky, his uncle would not notice and the bruise would fade away quickly. He felt the warmth of his food rise to his cheeks. A hot bowl of stew to warm his stomach did little. Malik forced himself to eat before going into he and his mother's shared bedroom.

 _Why couldn't you be here?_

First it was the children within the village. Malik cared little, he repeated it to himself. Like a prayer. He made himself believe it. He didn't care at all. Many of them had no father themselves. But theirs had been killed later in life. Not gone from the very beginning. Yet now, Malik thought, now it was his own blood. He could endure no longer. He was to get answers tonight. Or so he hoped. The young boy only wanted to know of his father. Was that too much for a son to ask?

Malik sat below the window, a book in his grasp as he forced himself to read each word that he knew. It was the only book he owned. A relic of his own father. It was tattered and destroyed but enough remained that it was readable. His mother soon entered. She must have tucked in his cousin's first, she always did. Always so motherly. Amani removed her scarf, readying herself for a nights sleep.

"What have you there?" She asked as she undid her braid, letting her hair fall in dark, loose waves along her back.

Malik held back the smile threatening to form on his lips. His mother was lovely. _Blessed_ he thought, blessed he was to have her as a mother. He turned a page, "You don't wish me to be educated?"

He knew she did. It was important that Malik know how to read when his mother herself had not known any words at his age. She only knew how to write her own name. She eventually learned. Amani always read through the tattered pages of their book to her son ever since he was an infant up until he could begin reading on his own.

Amani let a light chuckle escape her lips. Her voice was soothing, sweet to Malik's ears, "I was taught to read with that story."

She told him the story only once before.

"Yes. By my father." He'd be reminded of that fact every time he went to read through his book.

At the mention, Amani's smile wiped from her face as she knelt down to rid their bed of any dust that may have entered through the window during the day.

It was now or never. Malik could continue his life knowing nothing about his father other than his name and that he'd known how to read. No. Malik wanted to know who his father was, what his favorite color was, what he smelled like and what clothing he wore. Now that he thought of it, they had no clothing of any man other than his uncle.

Malik bit his bottom lip, closing his book but keeping it close to his chest. He took a deep breath, keeping his gaze on the floor, "Will you never tell me about him, mother?"

Amani rose from where she knelt, arranging their blanket. She was calm. Quiet. Her silence made Malik feel uneasy. She could suddenly burst either in anger, begin yelling at him or suddenly start to weep. Malik wanted neither of those outcomes.

She sighed, moving her long hair to one side, "It's late. Put that book away, let us sleep. _Come now, Malik."_

"At least just one thing. I need to know. I have right to know. What was he like? What else did he read? Did he travel? His favorite meal. The color of his eyes. Just one thing, Umi, please."

But she didn't answer. Amani continued arranging and rearranging their bed, the light blanket having been stretched about. She wiped away imaginary dust, keeping herself occupied with anything and ignored her sons gaze on her back.

Malik sighed. He pursed his lips. Rahim had always been angry, he was always angry toward Malik. But where had his father truly gone? Had he left him and his mother? Had his mother left him with no other choice? He couldn't be made a fool of much longer, "People talk. Not only children. Now Rahim as well."

"Sometimes when people talk they don't always tell the truth." His mother muttered.

It was a terrible thing she was doing. Keeping information from her son. But what information did she have on her husband. Amani knew as much as he.

"May I at least know of him."

She thought over the proposition for some time. Almost afraid to utter his name she spoke softly, "You are very much like him. Stubborn. Malik, your father- he was strong willed. Wise and capable. He'd been through much in his life. He was filled with knowledge, strength, pain and love."

"But where is he?" Malik finally stood up, his book close to his chest as he neared his mother. Amani took his book, setting it aside. She helped him undress, pulling his sleeves from his skinny arms before helping him into a more comfortable shirt to sleep in.

"Not with us. But one day... one day he will return." She pursed her lips.

The young boy crawled into bed with his mother. She was warm. She always was. Malik became comfortable as his mother hugged him from behind as if she were scared he would wither away. Soon he would no longer be able to be treated in such a childlike manner, "You once said I reminded you of him."

"You always do," she said with a smile. "More with each passing day. You're eyes, a mirror of his own. Malik, you are beautiful," she said, running a hand through his unruly hair, she always did that, "But that is enough, I'm afraid. You must sleep now."

"May I have a story tomorrow? Please, Umi."

"Perhaps. We will see."

* * *

 **Just another little side project since I recently read The Secret Crusade again and it got me thinking. This story will follow Malik's son. And I understand that in the novel they say his name is Tazim but look again my children that's the name he is known by in _The Order_ and his mother had named him after his father. Anyway I will go more into depth in later chapters this is just my take on one possible way it could have gone down as his journey to meet Altair years later. I would love comments and feedback have an awesome day/night! **


	2. Chapter 2

Malik practically vibrated every day as he did whatever chore his mother asked. He knew each night came with a new story about his father. He knew his father was a smart man but with his mother's words, the man could have been a prophet altogether. A messenger with a mind made of gold. Gold. That was good right? She declined when Malik asked if his father had been a scholar.

"All but in title. Perhaps in a different life."

He'd been gifted quite a few stories within the last few days. Small, delicate gifts. Malik felt they were precious pieces of his mother's soul. The way she drew a picture into his mind with her soft spoken words. His mother was worrisome at first. She only gave him small tidbits, short insights as to who his father was, what he was like. His favorite book being the one Malik had in his possession. Not precisely for its content but more so for the personal value it held.

 _He taught me to read with that book. I sold it to him... for a name. His name._

His father had been a tall man, like young Malik in many ways even when his age caught up with him. Amani spoke of the time he went into the markets to buy ink from her stall many years before they met again and were wed. She was young then as was he. The way his mother spoke of him, she became a lovestruck girl all over again. Her cheeks blushed a lovely rose color when mentioning his father's small knacks.

The way his shoulders swayed as he walked with his chin held up high. How his father, no matter how irritated or angry always made sure to speak kindly to Amani, make her feel at home. Home? Malik thought for a moment. Then he must not have been from Jerusalem. His father, only ever a name or imaginary figure slowly but surely built form in the young boy's mind.

"You've said before that I have his eyes."

"You do," she said with a warm smile, "Eye's radiating with the passion of his younger years. Filled with pain, wisdom and strength, Malik."

Malik had stayed behind to help his mother with chores around their home. Namely the dull stitching made in his younger cousin's shirt. Ilma tried to sew a tear herself but only managed to make it worse. She and Rahim went to accompany their father at the markets that day. Malik was thankful to be alone with his mother. Their home could at least now be more quiet than it normally was. He was glad for the small gift of peace.

"Father was not from Jerusalem." It wasn't a question as much as a statement, "You and he lived together. But not here."

"And why do you say that?" Amani was slightly taken aback at the sudden break in silence. She continued to chop vegetables and prepare their meal for the evening.

Malik cut through the crude stitching of Ilma's shirt, "You're choice in words. He made you feel at _home_. Home is in Jerusalem."

They had lived there all his life. Malik knew of no other area as his home. His mother and uncle had been born there. His cousins were being raised there. It was their home. No matter how small or how filthy, it would always be their home.

"Home is not always where one was born, my love. One day I hope you will find that home is in the soul of another person." As always, his mother only further confused him with her cryptic words.

"Was he from Jerusalem? You were born here. As was Uncle and his children. I was as well."

"No," she said with a smile that made it seem as though she was trying not to cry. She always did that. As if it pained her to be happy. She was still beautiful in the boy's eyes, "No, Malik, you were not born in Jerusalem. And neither was your father."

"Where?"

It took her a moment to answer. Malik didn't mind, he waited patiently. Amani sighed, paused from her cutting board before biting her lip and went on to chop her vegetables, "Masyaf. Nearest the brightest star in the sky. When you hear the sound of clashing metal, the smell of roses from the gardens, you will know you have arrived."

Malik watched his mother put on a fresh pot to cook their meal. "Masyaf... but that means-"

"Yes." she paused from her cooking to look up, ponder at nothing in particular yet everything at once, remembering the peaceful times in Masyaf long before, "Your father was an Assassin. Highly respected."

"An Assassin," he whispered to himself as if the word itself was forbidden. He knew of the Assassin's and what cruel things they had done throughout the land. But his father could not have been one so terrible, could he? No his mother must be mistaken. "But they are corrupt. Most are evil, they tax those who are not wealthy enough to purchase even a meal."

His mother wiped her hands on her already filthy skirts. She lent on their table making sure Malik had given her all his attention. Her face gave the appearance that he would be scolded for saying such words.

"No. Their Master is corrupt," Amani said in a whisper, her voice suddenly afraid to speak ill in case an ear passed by their window, listening in on their conversation. She quickly came back to her wits, keeping her chin up high, "The Assassin's were once proud warriors. Honorable. Dedicated to their craft. They followed their creed. Their true Master. All changed when Altair went missing."

"Altair? Those are only stories. He has long died."

Perhaps they were once great men but what was happening now, outside in their city and many others... And what silly talk of Altair. Ridiculous. They all knew the stories. That was all they were after all. Only stories told by the Master and the Assassin's. The children themselves played games out in the dirt based off those stories and legends.

"Has he?" she asked, her lips curling slightly, "Altair was a great Assassin. Your father spoke highly of him. They were close, having grown up together. Fought together. Malik was often left in charge during his absence..."

Malik thought a few moments. He finished cutting the crude stitching Ilma had left behind and abandoned the shirt on his lap. If what his mother told him were true then there was a possibility his father was in Masyaf. He must be. And he surely would be waiting for Malik to join him at his side.

"He will return- father I mean," he looked up into his mother's worry filled face, his own eyes radiating with hope, "I promise to you, mother. I must be ready for when he does. I will become strong. He waits for me. For us, _Umi_."

"Yes, Malik. He waits for us..."

Malik would keep his promise to his mother. He would guide them through the journey to his father. But first, he must become the man his father surely wishes to see. And finally his family will be complete.

* * *

 **A much shorter chapter but the next will surely be longer thanks for reading!**


	3. Chapter 3

He'd grown proudly. Strong. Capable. Malik was fast, he was agile. At seventeen, the young man was ready for anything to be thrown his direction. He was alive. Young. Malik was as wild and reckless as a thunder in a storm. He was prideful with his speed. Malik was able to outrun Rahim himself and could best him easily in a fight.

Bit by bit, lesson by lesson, Malik taught himself everything an Assassin was sure to know since he first found out the truth of his father being an Assassin. He was in Masyaf for sure, waiting for him to become strong. Malik would not disappoint.

His uncle was the one to thank as well as he was the only one who'd told Malik of the Assassin ways. A man a few words, but each one held all the information Malik would need. His uncle knew little but it was enough that Malik needed.

 _Assassin's are talented in stealth._ His uncle would tell him. And Malik would continue his day practicing his stealth. His short tips and words of advise were enough for Malik to guide his self training. His uncle was accustomed to speaking short comments as Malik busied himself outside of their home. Every mistake he made being set right with his uncle's amused observation of him.

 _Assassin's protect the innocent._ _Assassin's rise from the ashes, stronger than before. Assassin's master the art of the blade. Assassin's are wise with their actions. A reckless Assassin is a dead Assassin._

He'd been an accomplished rider in his youth. Malik knew how to handle a horse well. Having always ridden his uncles' stallion. A small gift on his tenth birthday. He was known for being fast and agile. The very best creature Malik had been blessed with. But he quickly grew old. Became injured easily. Rahim himself was forced to dispatch the horse as Malik watched.

That only helped in motivating Malik further. He'd seen a form of death. Yet that could not slow him down. He was to train. Malik took to the rooftops, climbing and jumping far distances. He practiced his stealth, being able to avoid the guards proficiently at times yet still not expertly.

Most recently, much to his disagreement, his mother occasionally sent Malik and Rahim to sell her cloth and scarves. Those were the days he dreaded. The days his uncle had very little energy to leave his bed. He was growing old as well. Just like his stallion.

Amani no longer told her son stories of his father. She had stopped crying, as well as stopped sitting outside their door every evening. It had been some time since she had stopped doing many things. Losing the energy. Perhaps losing hope as well. She'd slowly become more stubborn, instead sending him to the markets.

It was on one of those days that Malik had been sent to the markets with Rahim. The two were to sell Amani's most recent cloths. Malik despised being sent to work. He wanted to be free among his city. He wanted to feel the wind rest upon his sweat stained skin. Instead, he was with his cousins, being a merchant. Rahim kept cool beneath a nearby tree, Malik himself squinted in the sunlight as they both gazed in the same direction. They watched from their stall as Ilma sat on a bench in the middle of the courtyard with a young man right beside her. Clearly he was attempting to flatter her but failing terribly.

The young Ilma giggled, strands of her dark hair falling to her face. The young boy sitting at her side gave his most handsome toothy grin, muttering something before tucking her hair behind her ear in a swift motion earning yet another giggle from Ilma. She was not laughing with him but instead at how silly he seemed, trying to be charming. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous and filthy.

Rahim was not the least bit amused.

"I'll kill him."

"You'll do no such thing."

"Then you will kill him."

"Why is that?"

Rahim tilted his head slightly in Malik's direction, his voice dropping lazily, "You're the _Assassin_ in the family."

It was meant as an insult but Malik couldn't help but grin. Although his cousin irritated him most days, he at least was right to address Malik as he truly hoped he would one day in his adulthood. Just as he turned away from Ilma, an older woman caught his eye on the far end of the courtyard. She was with her young son, shielding him from the few guards that had gathered around her, taunting and yelling curses. This could be his chance to prove himself surely.

 _Assassin's defend the innocent._

"You're right, cousin. I am the Assassin."

With that being said, Malik grabbed one of his mothers scarves from the many they had been selling. A cream colored scarf with various patterns and embroiderment decorating it, Malik covered the smirk on his face and wrapped the cloth around his head. Rahim scoffed at his cousin, ready to comment on the matter but Malik was gone too soon.

His steps were fluid. Silent yet brisk as he made his way across the courtyard. Malik reached Ilma first, grabbing her wrist as gently as he could yet still firm enough that she stood up, "Go to Rahim."

If she made any protest, Malik didn't notice as he was walking ahead once more. His eyes never leaving the woman being pestered and harrassed by guards that had nothing better to do. He growled lowly, not noticing the figure watching his every move from beyond the courtyard.

Malik reached them just as the woman had been pushed roughly by one of the guards, "Stop that, you imbeciles!"

Being a young man, Malik was ever rarely taken seriously. Those who knew him thought he was a fool. The bastard son of a husbandless woman. But they were wrong to underestimate him.

Or perhaps Malik overestimated himself. He was quick to help the older woman to her feet, sending her away before a guard went to push him in her stead. Malik caught his balance, growling and looking up. There were five of them.

 _Assassin's do not give in to intimidation._

Yet a few moments later he would regret his decision in fighting. He easily tackled the guard who had pushed him, turning and pouncing on another before he could draw his sword. Malik deflected and dodged the blows coming his way. He used the other guards' bodies in his favor, as his shield. Defending ones self came easily to him. But soon he was overpowered. Malik was struck behind his head with the butt of a sword and fell to the grown with a loud _thud_.

Malik shut his eyes tightly, holding back the pain of such a hit. Taking in the throbbing in his head. He waited for the harsh attacks of the guards, covering his head with his arms and curling into himself. But the blows never came. Malik heard one of the guards cry out in pain before the others began shouting aggressively.

A strong arm yanked him up to his feet, and suddenly another was on his chest pushing him aside. Malik shook the haziness from his vision long enough to catch sight of his savior. A white robed man attacked the guards, killing two and hurting the others before rushing to Malik's side.

 _Assassin._

"Others will arrive for our heads. Run!" He roughly pushed against Malik's chest, tossing him aside once again. The young man stumbled on his feet before realizing what was happening before him.

Without a second warning, Malik pushed through his blurred vision, running through the markets. He pushed anyone who was in his way, encountering guards and other civilians as they all shouted at him. Many of the women grabbed their children to run from the danger. Malik dared to turn his head and spotted the Assassin right on his tail. Guards were not far behind, cursing and some aiming their crossbows. Malik stopped in the middle of a bustling street. He looked around for a more swift exit from the crowd, hearing the shouts of the angry guards only seconds behind him.

The Assassin crashed right into him, catching his sleeve and pulling him along as he growled in a raspy voice, "Do not stop, fool. Rooftops."

Malik didn't need to be told twice. He rushed to follow the Assassin who clambered over crates. The young man's ragged breathing made his mouth and throat go dry. Malik felt his muscles ache, his speed was decreasing as he grew more tired. He grasped the crates as guards neared them. Without warning, the Assassin dug his blunt nails into his arm, pulling him over the rooftop roughly, making Malik scratch his face in the process but saving him from an array of arrows.

"Your legs, use their strength, boy." The Assassin huffed as he himself climbed up a second roof easily, Malik not far behind.

The Assassin was quite surprised will how well the young man was able to keep up as well as hold his own against the guards. Although it isn't very difficult to begin with, but being over numbered by men was no joke. The boy threw few attacks but the way he guarded himself, his style, very familiar no doubt about it as were his movements.

It didn't take long for the two to be out of sight of any guard. Safe for the time being. Malik was trying to steady his breathing, not wanting the Assassin to notice how inexperienced he was with climbing and running away from guards all at the same time. The Assassin's own breath coming easily to a steady rhythm.

"You held yourself well," he let his lips curl upward, "For a time at least. You must keep your knees bent, ready for any blow to come."

An Assassin. Those of which he had been told of in stories both good and bad. Which kind this man was, Malik was unsure. He was older yet not as old as his own mother and uncle. The upper half of his face hidden well in his cowl as the lower half peered into the sun, dark as his own skin with black facial hair. Perhaps his later 30's Malik concluded.

"I did... You are an Assassin," Malik stated, he removed the scarf from his head, squinting in the sunlight as he used it to wipe the sweat from his face. He frowned when he noticed the stained blood. His cheek surely had been injured from the ragged scratch. Still, it was better than an arrow through his skull.

The older man nodded, his hooded head turning to survey the rooftops in caution. He was careful that no other guard suddenly attack them, "Only in name," he turned back to Malik, "Why did you help that woman?"

It was now that the Assassin's face became more visible, as did Malik's anger. The man's black eyes being covered in the sweat dripping from his forehead, dangerous and wise.

"Why not? It was the right thing to do. Would you not have done the same?" His voice was harsher than intended yet Malik didn't mind. He gathered the scarf in his hands, his mother would be unhappy.

"Perhaps... in my youth."

"What is your business in Jerusalem?" Malik furrowed his eyebrows, he stood as tall as he could even when his chest still burned freshly with pain, "Collecting more taxes no doubt. Causing more trouble."

The Assassin glared at him. His face suddenly dark with irritation and anger. "Mind your tongue, boy. I may have saved you this time, but I do not intend on doing it again," he growled before collecting himself once more, casting a knowing glance toward the young man, "Your ways of fighting are much like the Assassin's themselves. Who taught you to fight, to climb?"

" _I_ asked _you_ a question. Your business in Jerusalem." Malik nodded firmly, puffing his chest and crossing his arms.

The Assassin did not seem the least bit intimidated, "As did I. Or I may take my leave as I had planned to do so before you appeared."

So he _had_ been leaving Jerusalem. Malik debated with himself on whether that was a good thing or not. He'd arrived with instructions surely and now he had been taking his leave. Malik held his chin up high, "I taught myself."

"Nonsense," the older man waved his hand and scoffed.

"It is not nonsense. I can climb, I can fight, I can avoid guards!" Malik admitted, rage filling his lungs, he uncrossed his arms and put his fists to his sides, his knuckles turning white at the pressure.

"Yes. Clearly."

"I've snuck through the gates undetected every night for the past three years as your brothers have. As you have done as well!"

That might as well have been a lie. Malik hadn't attempted to sneak through the gates for a number of months. He was successful every time he did it before. But thinking back on the matter, he only attempted roughly five times before. After each night he always returned home with a number of bruises and scrapes. Exhausted beyond belief.

"You can fight for only a few moments, child," the Assassin sighed, he crossed his arms over his chest in return, "Have you trained with a sword before? Throwing knives?"

Malik rolled his eyes. He scoffed, relaxing his arms once more, "Sword. I've not had the privilege to own a throwing knife."

His uncle owned a sword. It was the only weapon in their home. He kept in hidden. It was a treasured weapon. Malik had been given special privilege as well as few lessons by his uncle before. Of course each of those lessons only a few minutes long, away from his mothers eyes before Malik continued his practice on his own. But he knew enough.

"Take mine," the Assassin said as he drew his sword, handing it to Malik before unsheathing his short sword as well, "Show me what little you know, _child_."

Malik took the sword, it was heavier than the one his uncle owned. A very simple design, no such detailing in it at all. The young man took a deep breath as he took his stance, grasping the handle of the sword with both hands. The Assassin's lips curled slightly as he himself took a step forward.

It was Malik who yelled out, the first to attack. The Assassin evaded him easily, blocking with his short sword before pushing Malik aside with his other arm, "Ridiculous start."

The younger man kept at it. He continued being the first to attack just as the Assassin continued deflecting all his blows. The boy was a brute. Very little brain when it came to attacking. All muscle. All power. No strategy. After another few blows and failed attempts at stabbing him, the older man decided to flip their positions.

Just as Malik went to strike once more, the Assassin rolled to the side, swiping his blade across the back of Malik's knee. The young man gave out a loud cry, feeling a light sting from his leg but refused to let his pain give in. It would not be deep he tried to make himself believe. Malik stole a glance and saw no blood as of yet. Still the pain remained. He wobbled, attempting to straighten up. The Assassin stood up proudly and frowned at the boy before him.

Pity if he were to fail so early, he had such potential.

Malik pushed through the pain. It was no worse than the scratch on his face he told himself. The Assassin stomped forward, slicing his blade through the air as he neared the young man and attacked. Malik groaned in frustration, rolling out of the way as he'd seen before, catching the Assassin's blade with his own. He used one of his hands to toss dirt at the Assassin's face for a moment to regain himself and take charge of the fight.

They danced about, Malik dodged and evaded the attacks. At times attempting and succeeding in elbowing the Assassin wherever he could. He was faster than the other man. Surely that had helped him best the Assassin. It was only until Malik used his weight to push the older man to the ground, his sword now at the Assassin's throat, did Malik grin.

"I've bested you."

The Assassin pushed the boy from his chest. He sheathed his short sword, roughly yanking his second weapon from the younger man's hands. Malik all the while checking where he had been injured. The cut was not deep, the Assassin had made sure of it. It was the shock of having been struck that was surely setting in. He must not have been use to being injured. The wound would cease from bleeding soon. Only a few stains of blood at most.

Although irritating, there was an undeniable truth lingering in the air.

The boy was good. Too good for a street rat raised in Jerusalem. His style of fighting, it was sloppy, messy and mainly brute force. Dirty, unsteady fighting mixed with few Assassin elements. For a moment the Assassin almost let himself believe that the boy's style of fighting, his anger and determination reminded him of a teacher in his youth.

But he was good. With proper training he could easily become one of the best. The boy belonged in Masyaf. He was young. He had potential. Potential could not be left to waste.

"Raw," the Assassin huffed, collecting himself, "Undisciplined. But you remind me of our old ways, along with our old teachers and superiors. What is your name?"

Malik stood up slowly after wrapping his knee with the scarf he had. Although it was a light wound he thought it best to wrap it. He then remembered what his mother had told him before. His father had been in charge of the Order for some time before they'd left Masyaf. He knew that he held much of his fathers physical features. The Assassin was older. When Malik's father was in charge, the Assassin couldn't have been older than a teenager.

Still, he decided to take caution. A reckless Assassin was a dead Assassin.

"Tazim," he squinted at the sun pooling into his eyes.

The older man seemed to have almost ignored him, he tilted his head back, his voice commanding, "Why are you not in Masyaf? You are far too good a fighter to waste your life in the slums."

Because he still hadn't made his father proud. That's what Malik wanted to tell him. He wanted to tell him how his father would one day return for him when Malik was _ready_ to become an Assassin. A true Assassin. But he had yet to arrive. And perhaps this would be the only sign presented to him to prove his worth.

Instead, Malik tilted his head, "I- I have no horse."

It wasn't entirely false. Malik truly had no horse. Not anymore at least. How was he expected to reach Masyaf on foot? It was a weak excuse but nothing else had come to mind and the words escaped his mouth before he completely understood what he was saying.

The Assassin took his time responding, overlooking the horizon and the vast empty rooftops. Malik felt uneasy, uncomfortable with the silence. He caught sight of a scarred cheekbone within the Assassin's cowl. Pink and twisted in such a design, cutting off into strange, short patches. Surely a burn mark. Quickly, he turned away as the man looked to him once more.

"I had reason to believe you owned a red dun. A strong mare."

The young man shook his head, "No- I... you must be mistaken-"

But before Malik could finish his answer, the Assassin cut him off with a wave of his had. "I must return to Masyaf, as is the life of an Assassin," he grabbed a throwing knife from the belt of his robes, flipping it in his gloved hand and handing it to Malik, "Remember the strength in your legs."

Malik took the throwing knife, running his hand across the blade. It was finely crafted. Evenly balanced and he couldn't help but think just how beautiful it was. An honor to have such a weapon. An Assassin's weapon. He looked up at the Assassin who let his lips twitch upward. He began to walk backward, toward the edge of the rooftop.

"Safety and peace, _brother_." And with that, he jumped off the rooftop and was gone.

Gripping the blade close to his chest, making a fist, Malik nodded, "Safety and peace, _Assassin_."


	4. Chapter 4

Malik ran home. He felt his heart race and his lungs burn within his chest. His leg stung from the fresh wound but the young man refused to give in. It was only a slight amount of pain so he ignored it. There could be worse wounds. He was sweating when he arrived home at last. Dropping down from a rooftop, he noticed the sun disappearing in the horizon. Malik made sure to hide his gifted throwing knife within his folded waistband of his trousers. His mother would not be glad to see him arrive so late as well as with a weapon.

Stepping into his home, he realized he was right.

Amani turned her head, wet tears having recently been wiped from her cheeks and new ones beginning to pool in once more. Individual strands of hair stuck to her forehead and damp cheeks. She sat at their kitchen table but quickly stood up, rushing to engulf Malik in a strong hug. Her voice rang heavy with emotion as Malik let her cry into his shoulder, he let his own hands fall upon her back.

"You idiot!" She hit her fist against his chest and sobbed.

Malik was unsure why it was that she was crying so much. She never worried as much as she did that night. He raised his head to see his cousins around their small kitchen. His uncle sat at their table, Rahim and Ilma stood on either side of his frame. Ilma's own eyes were red with stains of tears rolling down her filthy cheeks. She wiped her nose and took the seat his mother had left behind.

Rahim had his arms crossed, eyeing Malik dangerously, "We thought you were killed, you fool. I saw the Assassin run after you!"

Of course.

Malik had been an idiot. Rahim had only seen as he had started a fight with the guards and mere seconds later had an Assassin run after him after he'd disposed of those very same guards. It didn't help that the man had roughly been tossing Malik aside like a rag doll. And he had also been gone for the entirety of the afternoon. A cruel way to bring his family pain but he was home now. He was alive. And perhaps more alive than ever before.

His mother's sobs soon faded into light whimpers, glad that her son was home. She removed herself from his grasp and wiped her cheeks with her scarf. As she looked into her son's face she noticed his scratched cheek, bringing her soft hand up to it.

"Malik," she began quietly, "you are hurt."

Malik shook his head, he grabbed his mothers hand and brought it back down, "I am fine." He had much to explain to them all. Much of what he himself had decided on his return home. But first he must make them see things through his own eyes, he must try, it was only right, "The Assassin- he helped me."

Rahim growled. He shook his head in anger and pointed at Malik, "You were a witness to his killing! Assassin's help no one. Just look at your face."

His mother took a moment compose herself as well as she could. She fixed the scarf atop her head and wiped her face once again, a few light whimpers escaping her throat every now and again. Other than soft gasps and sniffles, she kept quiet and listened to what her son had to say for himself.

"Well, he helped me," Malik admitted in a single breath. He was unsure whether to mention what the Assassin had gifted him. Malik took a deep breath before making up his mind, better now than later, "He gave me... a gift."

At that, they all took notice as Malik slowly unfolded the throwing knife from within the waistband of his trousers. Malik gripped it tightly, the sharp edge glistening in the candle and firelight coming from the kitchen. Amani kept a hand over her mouth, sighing in disappointment, she took a step back.

Rahim shook his head, his voice loud and stern as he made his beliefs known, "Idiot, he means to kill you with it. You've been marked by death!"

"I'm meant to learn with it!" Malik contradicted, gripping the knife as his fists balled and went to his side immediately.

Amani finally spoke out, her gentle voice rising steadily, "No."

"Mother-"

"You get rid of that blade," she began, her tone serious with few strands of hair coming loose from her undone braid, "It has gone far enough with the Assassin's, Malik! I will not lose my only son to some ridiculous cause!" With that, she turned to go back to the kitchen, having made her desire known and presumed it would be followed. Malik still had yet to finish. He would be heard out by his family no matter what.

How dare they? Amani had gifted him with various stories of his father. Of the true Assassin ways of life and discipline. His own uncle had guided Malik's self training. And now that he crossed paths with the Assassin in the markets, Malik would not let his chance whither away. No, he quickly remembered his fight with the Assassin. He pursed his lips together. No, not Malik...

"Tazim," he let out. Malik kept his chin high, avoiding eye contact with his family.

No one seemed to answer. The air around them filled with confusion and fear. Amani peered her eyes over, turning ever so slightly to her son before looking back at Rahim and Ilma. His mother and cousin's all exchanging different glances before it was Ilma who dared to speak. Her soft, sweet voice coming gently into their chaos, "What?"

Malik cleared his throat. He would make sure they listened. He would not be tossed aside. His words would be heard, his plan would be come to realization with their blessing or not.

"I'm going to Masyaf as Tazim. I will find father myself, or answers to his absence. You once spoke proudly of the Assassin's, mother," he accused with a shake of his head, fingers still tightly grasping the throwing knife at his side.

Amani took a breath, she tangled her own fingers together in front of her, resting them underneath her stomach, "I was wrong to do so."

 _Oh, yes she was._

Rahim scoffed, making fun of his cousin's ridiculous choice, it was then that their attention was turned to him, "It's suicide. You'll return with your tail between your legs before a single day passes, _Tazim_."

He must be insane to go forth with such a goal in mind. It was one thing to say he would train and join their ranks while it was quite another to take action. They knew little of the Order aside from stories. _Stories_ , not actual first hand experience at all. And most of those same stories were very much dated themselves.

"You have no horse," Ilma quickly added, her eyebrows furrowed. She knew Malik was capable of much but truly hoped he had no more tricks up his sleeve. He was a stubborn young man and once with a goal in mind, it was not easy to steer him away from it.

"Assassin's adapt." Malik bit back just as quickly.

"But you are no Assassin!" His mother cried, her hands now clutching her skirts and her face full of anger, "You do as you're told. I want that blade to be rid of."

Malik had never seen her in such a state before. It almost scared him just how full of rage she was in. Yet he kept his own emotions hidden as well as he could. They were all scared. For him or _of_ him, Malik was unsure. That was when Malik noticed his uncle. He hadn't uttered a single word since the argument began. He stood from his seat, Ilma helping him up. He seemed older and more fragile than ever before as his trousers hung loosely from his body, quickly becoming frail with age.

"He is gone, Malik. If your father still walked the earth, he would be here. But he is not."

His words, although calm, were strict and inpatient. No, it could not be true. It was not true. No matter how much it pained him to hear such things, Malik refused to believe what he was being told.

Yet that was all it took for an anger and hurt unlike any other to rise in his chest. Malik felt tears prick at his eyes with such words being spoken aloud into the crisp night air. He did his best to keep his voice steady but was unsuccessful, feeling the knot rise within his throat, "You don't know that for sure. No one knows that!"

"Enough!" his uncle exclaimed, "You bring nothing but shame to this family. I will have no more of this."

Malik attempted to steady his breathing, light gasps of air passed through his trembling body. Was it anger? Fear? He could not say. He could no longer live with the thought that he didn't at least attempt in finding his father or the reason to his absence. Malik let his eye's hover from one family member to another. Ilma didn't dare look at him, she wiped her cheek and kept her head down while Rahim bit his lip and looked to the side. His own mother sighed, her face tired, could hardly look up into her sons face.

He pursed his lips, growling in a low voice, "I will not stand idly by wondering what could have been. If I die, your lack of support is what will have brought me to deaths door." Without another word, the young man turned and bounded out of his home.

His family could do very little. But there was one who would not let Malik fall to such a ruined path so easily.

It was Rahim who came out to follow him some few minutes later. The sound of his footsteps rang heavily among the quiet night of Jerusalem. His older cousin could only shake his head in disappointment as Malik sat on a ladder within the alley near their home. He always went there, into the alley to collect himself or have some time away from everyone else.

Malik didn't have the energy to look up, he flipped the throwing knife still in is grasp. Surveying its smooth surface and running his thumb along the edges, "You've come to mock me."

Comforting Malik was not something Rahim often did, if ever. They mostly fought, argued and annoyed one another. It was not unnatural for his cousin to come looking for Malik but it always came with a lesson or mockery.

"I've come to talk sense into you" Rahim answered, dark hair softly falling on his forehead, and knelt down, "Peace?"

"Peace?" Malik scoffed, he looked over to his elder, eyeing him up and down, "Since when do you ask for such a thing?"

His cousin ignored him. Of course he was a stubborn fool, very little would change. Rahim rolled his eyes. He took notice in the stain behind his knee. He suddenly found the wound Malik had acquired to be far more interesting, "There is blood on your leg."

"Dried blood. I fell."

"On a blade?" he teased.

"The guards," Malik corrected, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Rahim sighed heavily, running a hand through his unkempt hair, "Malik-"

"Tazim," he corrected.

He would not let it go so easily. It irritated Rahim beyond belief yet he kept his irritation at bay.

"Fine," he paused, "Tazim, you must leave such silly ideas behind," he sighed. Rahim kept his eyes to the ground and began to pace, "Grow up. You are no longer a child. You are searching for your father when in reality you are only searching for a ghost who no longer exists. This-" he gestured with his hands, "the Assassin's, you cannot truly believe-"

"Silly ideas?" Malik accused suddenly, "Rahim, you once use to train alongside me. We raced across rooftops together."

When they were children going into their teenage years. Rahim and Malik always challenging one another no matter the situation. Yet even the mention of such memories persuaded Rahim of nothing.

"I once bested you at each of those things as well," the elder cousin barked back, "You will not let this go will you?"

"No."

Rahim scoffed, "Then you are an ignorant fool. And you will die."

That was all he could say before spitting to the ground and leaving Malik alone once more with his thoughts. Malik fiddled with the blade in his grasp, turning it and watching the moonlight bounce from it's sharpened edge. It shouldn't come as a surprise that his family went against his beliefs and goal. Yet that didn't stop it from wounding him deeply.

His father must have answers to his absence. If not him then the Order itself. Malik needed the confirmation. He had to gain answers, see things with his very own eyes. He needed to make his father proud, live up to the name he had been given from birth.

An hour had passed and Malik had yet to move from his position, staying perched on the ladder with his blade in hand. Thinking of his day, basking in the freshness of the night, the young man sighed.

Malik could not stay home and do nothing when there was a world out there just for him. Answers to where his father had gone, why he was absent for so long. And perhaps, Malik needed only to prove himself so his father would at last return home to him and his mother. He had been given the Assassin's blessing. One solid chance which he could not let slip by. No. No, he refused to let his chance pass him by.

Malik would leave tonight.

Entering his home, everyone was now fast asleep. Thinking quickly, he used this time to his advantage. Malik securely cleansed and dressed his wound, ready for his legs to carry him to a new land. The young man packed a bag, filled it with a few apples as he thought of his mother fast asleep in their bedroom not far from the kitchen. He changed his clothing, ready for his journey and made his way to a chest hidden away in their kitchen.

Malik had always been so confident in himself and yet as he opened his uncles chest, taking in the sight of his sword, he'd never felt so uncertain. It all felt so wrong yet so right once he grasped the hilt and brought it out. A finely crafted sword, old and worn yet sturdy and deadly as ever. The young man sheathed it, grabbing his bag and stood up proudly.

It didn't hurt him as he left his home. It did not hurt to think he left behind his family. Malik stuck to the shadows, blending into the quiet of the night. Scaling the wall of the gates proved no difficulty to Malik. The fear of being caught is what made his palms slick with sweat. He ventured on, light on his feet and his arms never failing him as he made it into the vast empty land before him.

Malik's breath hitched, freezing in his place once realizing he was outside of Jerusalem. Hearing a passing guard, he quickly hid within the shadows. Malik felt his hands shake, whether from excitement or fear he couldn't be sure. It was then that he took notice in a lone horse hidden away. A red dun, just as the Assassin had spoken. With nothing but it's saddle, the horse had been waiting for him. The Assassin had made sure of it. The young man couldn't help but grin as he stepped over to the large animal.

"What a beauty you are," Malik chuckled to himself. He strapped his satchel onto the saddle and mounted the horse. At last he would be given his chance, he would make his way to Mayaf.

* * *

 **Let's be honest, this chapter was killing me and I finally finished it! I roughly edited it and may have missed a thing or two but so be it! Plus it's longer so that's good, right? Thank you readers and also a certain reader who with a kind congratulations pushed me to finally finish and post this chapter. Any thoughts or comments are greatly appreciated! Have an awesome day/night!**


	5. Chapter 5

**From here on out I decided to write Tazim as well... as Tazim seeing as he will now take on this identity. So just a small clarification. And also apologies for a somewhat short chapter compared to the previous. Comments and questions are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!**

* * *

Tazim would never admit he lost his way. Traveling alone for the first time came with its pros and cons. He may have been taking slightly longer than he would have thought to reach his destination, but he refused to believe he was lost. He began with following the brightest star as his mother had told him years before. Yet a haze covered the sky, Tazim was as good as blind. It was not even a few hours and the young man longed to arrive at his destination. His mare was far from tired but Tazim himself was exhausted.

 _Tazim._ What a name. If he were to be accepted into the brotherhood he could not risk the chance of being found out. He must become accustomed to the name. With every passing day, Tazim only looked more like his father. His mother had told him much of that. And Tazim himself looked nothing like his mother. With their shared name, many of the older Assassin's may begin to ask questions. Surely the one he had met must have sensed something.

Still, he was not completely sure who his mare had belonged to prior. She had been waiting for him. Surely it was the Assassin's doing. But there was no way to be completely certain. Tazim quite liked her calm exterior. The beast was strong, her stamina one that even Tazim was impressed with. Her appetite not so much after having ate most of the apples Tazim had brought with him. _Elma_ he named her.

Giving a quick glance up into the clouded sky, Tazim cursed at himself. Of all nights for the weather to act up...

He was far too tired to think more of it. The young man jumped down from his horse, looking up into the dark sky angrily once again. The moon gave enough light behind its haze but not enough to show a sign of stars. He couldn't risk traveling during the night and becoming more lost. Tazim almost hoped to find the Assassin on his journey but as fate would have it, he had waited too long. The Assassin would be much farther ahead than he.

"We will rest, Elma." Tazim spoke softly to his mare while unpacking his bedroll. It may not be much, but the teen was beyond thankful for a somewhat comfortable resting place.

Tazim had little experience when it came to sleeping out in the open. He neared a tree to sleep under for a few hours. Perhaps when he awoke, Tazim would find his bearings. His mare near him, he would give Elma some time to rest. He had not thought he would be so tired. Although he and Rahim had awoken early that morning to set up their stall in the markets. As he lay down, Tazim felt the burn of his muscles from that afternoon's quarrel with the guards and Assassin.

Just as he closed his eyes, ready to fall asleep comfortable with his head resting on his pack filled with miscellaneous items, Tazim thought back to his family. His mother surely would awaken to find him missing. It hurt him now to think he would cause her so much pain. But Tazim had no other choice. He would see for himself. Why his father never returned to them.

Yet he was afraid of what truths he would find or perhaps not find.

He hadn't noticed he fell asleep until hours later when a cold blade pressed against his neck. Tazim's vision was blurred as he forced his eyes to open. Within a few second he caught sight of the hooded figure leaning over him. Perhaps his night was not as unlucky as it had seemed.

 _Assassin._

Tazim scoffed, his voice still clung to sleep, "Well, it was about time-"

"The mare," the blade at Tazim's neck dug deeper.

It was only after a moment that Tazim realized, this Assassin was not an Assassin. At least not the one Tazim had met. His voice was that of a much younger man's, a strange hint of an accent. The cowl, his robes were not the deadly white of the man he had met. Not the Assassin he should fear. His face, although hardly distinguishable in the hazy moonlight, was young, almost childlike with softer features. Clearly no thick beard.

Tazim wiped the sleep from his eyes, "What?-"

"This horse is not yours, boy," yet again the blade moved on his neck, drawing the slightest bit of blood, "Speak wisely before I cut out your tongue as well as your head."

Although he was much younger than most Assassin's, Tazim reminded himself he must take caution. Such novices surely cared less for the life of any random civilian. No matter how much he told himself he should not be afraid, Malik could not fight the nerves the Novice gave him. He feared the young man being unpredictable. He thought carefully of what the boy was telling him. The mare, of course! Tazim mentally slapped himself. The Assassin must have set him up. What rotten luck he had.

"The Assassin- he... an older man! I can explain."

At that, the Novice let a grin spread across his face before letting out a laugh, "I am only joking," he removed his blade from Tazim's neck and stood, "You sound like a little girl. I know of the Assassin. He is my superior. We crossed paths. He told me to keep an eye out for a boy looking like a beggar."

The Novice stood up, putting his blade away and offering a hand to Tazim which he gladly accepted. Tazim brushed off his dusted clothes and wiped and the drop of blood on his neck, eyeing the young man, "You're no older than I am."

"Perhaps not in age but in rank..." he let his voice trail off, taking a step aside to pet Elma, "Grab your things, we are leaving to Masyaf. You have slowed down my return."

What a rude novice, Tazim thought. Although having just met, Tazim could not help but feel the arrogance within his annoying voice. He was not from Masyaf, the young man knew very well from his light toned skin and distinct accent. But he was right, the sooner they reached Masyaf the better. Tazim was fast in collecting his things. His bedroll tied neatly as he secured it on his horse.

"You are a novice yet you wander freely?" He pointed out with just as much dignity, mounting Elma and taking hold of the reins.

The novice thought over the question, the corner of his lips tugging upward yet falling just as quickly. He made sure the satchel and few weapons on his saddle were secure. "I was accompanying my superior. Collecting taxes. He is less harsh than others. I am Basilio," he answered, mounting his own horse.

"Tazim."

"I know," Basilio rolled his eyes, a faint curl to his lips, "Tazim, am I to believe you are worthy to walk up the steps of the Masyaf castle?"

At that, Tazim became irritated. How dare this mongrel speak such words toward him. Of course he was worthy and if not well he would make sure to become worthy soon enough. What a question to ask. Tazim only wished their journey to Masyaf would be fast, he was unsure if he could stand being with Basilio any longer than necessary.

The young man scoffed, "You are to believe whatever you wish, it is not my business. And I do not care. I am going to Masyaf for a serious matter."

He would reach Masyaf to obtain answers. Answers to questions having long been asked. Those from his childhood of which his mother closely had avoided. He was not there to make friends. Most especially not with such an outspoken novice as Basilio.

"Quite the mood killer," the other replied with a light chuckle, guiding his own horse down the road as Tazim followed, "You wish to be trained?"

With an annoyed grunt, Tazim answered, "I wish to _further_ my training, yes." He had not trained himself all his life for no reason at all. He was trained, except perhaps not professionally.

Basilio hummed amusingly, "Then you will be disappointed. But true to your word, you will be an Assassin. You hold the anger."

"I hold more than anger."

"Yes," the younger grinned and nodded to himself, "You do, brother."

As they slowly neared a hill, a faint hint of moonlight escaped from beyond the hazy sky. A light breeze of air had begun to pick up, kissing at Tazim's skin. The sky would be sure to clear soon enough and they would reach Masyaf not long after. Yet even with a guide, Tazim could do little to hide his discontent. At least the discontent of having this particular guide.

The young man could not help but growl in annoyance, "Will you make this journey difficult, Basilio?"

"It depends," he smirked, turning his head back to look at his new acquaintance, "are you ever not so serious, _Tazim_."


	6. Chapter 6

It didn't take them very long to arrive at Masyaf. Basilio took them through several self proclaimed "short-cuts". Tazim would have otherwise been angry over such things if they hadn't actually worked. Or perhaps it was only a part of his mind hoping those short-cuts were true. Basilio had them go through quiet, empty land which was worrisome. But at least now they were nearing the Masyaf castle all due to the Novice himself. What a strange, annoying boy.

Their destination was in full view as the two young men crossed over a small hill. The Masyaf castle stood boldly. At last, Tazim thought. There was no turning back now. His father was waiting for him.

"Novice, if I prove myself worthy, where will I be put?" Tazim finally asked, guiding his mare to trot alongside his companion. He'd been thinking of nothing else other than being accepted into the Order.

Basilio scoffed, chewing on a piece of dried meat, "Technically I am no longer a novice." He attempted at being serious, deepening his voice, "As for worthy? As long as you have thirst for blood and a fast hand, Abbas will accept you."

It was a shame that Basilio spoke the truth. Had the Order truly lowered its expectations so drastically? Abbas only cared for men who were loyal to him and able to hold their own in a fight if ever confronted as well as be menacing and intimidating in order to collect taxes and make deals with others.

"That is all?"

Basilio grimaced, whether from Tazim's question or his poor meal was uncertain. He spit what little meat he had in his mouth and tossed the rest before answering, "Whatever you've heard of the Assassin's, crooked, bloodthirsty imbeciles, believe it, because it is true. We are under the rule of the Master do not forget. Become that and the Master will be sure to welcome you, brother."

Become loyal to a man who'd taken from Tazim his family. It would prove to be a challenge yet Tazim accepted it nonetheless. Whatever it took to reach his goal, to make his father proud and gain answers, Tazim would endure no doubt. Yet if there were those who were loyal there must also have been others who went against the Master surely.

"And those who defy him?" Tazim asked, squinting in the sunlight.

Basilio shrugged. The fair skin hidden beneath his hood had become stained a light pink from the heat and was slick with sweat. He wiped at his forehead and cheeks with his sleeve, leaving it damp and dirty. He kept his head leaned back the slightest bit, his eyes on the Masyaf castle and the village before it.

"None would dare. Perhaps there was a time before..." his voice trailed off for a moment, he took hold of his reins once more, "But those men were put to death. There are enough graves to prove the viciousness of the Order. But enough questions, we have arrived."

They neared the stables, Basilio leading them as Tazim followed quietly behind, observing those few men within the stables. Most having the grey cowl of a novice and few wearing the deadly white. His companion had jumped down from his horse, speaking to an Assassin in hushed voices before the young man made his way to Tazim once again. He began to untie the few weapons he had fastened into the satchel he had on his saddle.

"We leave the horses," Basilio affirmed, grabbing his belongings one by one, "Take what you must. There are swift hands among the stables, take care what you leave behind."

Thankful for the warning, Tazim dismounted his horse. He had packed very little to begin with. The only thing of importance he owned was his sword. Tazim took it, fastening it on his belt before handing over his horse's reins to the Novice within the stables. Basilio went to his side, checking over his own satchel and making sure he left nothing. Tazim watched as they took his mare, "What of Elma?"

"She will not be mistreated," the young man scoffed from within his hood, finally looking up toward Tazim, "you may visit her if you please."

It was a crude joke, Tazim could not help but roll his eyes. He fixed his belongings, the bag now hanging from his arm did well in concealing the sword hanging from his hip. He brushed his fingers through his hair and wiped his face free of sweat with the sleeve of his shirt.

Basilio grinned, slapping the back of his hand on Tazim's stomach, causing him to jump in surprise. "Come," he nodded toward their walk up the hill, "the Master will be waiting."

Tazim was surprised at the vast emptiness within the village. They neared closer to an opening and that is when he witnessed the Masyaf castle in all it's glory. Just as his mothers stories told. The only difference was the liveliness. There were no children running around, playing and chasing one another. Few men and women walked along, busy with their errands and lives.

A pair of Assassin's stood guarding the entrance. They recognized Basilio but not Tazim. The two shared a look before moving aside and letting the pair through. Tazim had almost thought he heard the Assassin's mutter a remark but thought nothing of it. He followed closely behind Basilio, looking around and studying the fortress so that he would not get lost in the future.

There was no sound of clashing metal. Tazim imagined the sweet honey-filled smell of roses but was met with cold air in its stead. Nothing from his mother's stories. Not even the few Assassin's they passed held their chin up with pride. Where was the honor? The pride of the name Assassin.

The courtyard they passed through was empty. Tazim made sure to keep close with Basilio. Carrying his few belongings in the satchel he had brought with him but also nudging the hidden sword at his side. The weight of the weapon was unfamiliar yet it seemed so right to hang from his hip.

"You will meet Abbas," Basilio spoke in a hushed tone, his lips barely moving, "You will address him as 'Master'."

When they had finally reached the Master's study, Tazim took notice that they were not alone. The Assassin from Jerusalem was present as well as other Assassins and the Master himself. They had been quietly conversing among each other as the two younger men arrived. Basilio motioned for Tazim to wait by the door and approached the Master's desk.

Yet before Basilio could utter a word, Abbas proclaimed loudly, "You have finally decided to return. Yet your superior has been here far longer."

The novice inclined his head apologetically, "Forgive me, Master. I have brought-"

Abbas waved his hand, "The new recruit. They have told me." He took a moment to dismiss all the other Assassin's apart from the one of which Tazim had already been acquainted with. Few sent glances Tazim's way as they exited but he paid no mind. Basilio had moved aside and the Assassin perked up at the change in atmosphere.

At last, Abbas crossed his arms over his chest, "Zamir, do you believe him worthy of the Assassin name?"

At this, Tazim took a step forward, "If you let me show-"

"I did not ask _you_ , boy." Abbas silenced. He turned, calling to the Assassin, his voice less hostile, "Zamir."

The Assassin, Zamir, straightened his shoulders respectfully, nodding his head and pulling down his cowl, "I vouch for him as I have all my recruits. He is experienced. Roughened by life. Young and ready to uphold the Order. He will do as he is asked."

Abbas seemed to think over his options. His hand tentatively stroking his chin before a grin spread across his face. "It is settled. Novice," he called turning his attention to the young man at his side.

"Basilio, Master," he corrected attentively.

"He is under your care. You will teach him how we do things here. When the other's return from Damascus you will take their place," he ordered at last, turning back toward his desk.

Basilio cleared his throat, "Forgive me... but my rank, Master. I have always accompanied others."

Zamir interrupted before any answer could be given, raising his hand slightly in Basilio's direction and taking a step toward Abbas, "Master, he has proved himself many times under my supervision. Basilio is one of our brightest."

"You are right," Abbas agreed, turning in their direction once more, "but he is just a boy. Stay in Masyaf. Clean yourselves. Eat. Teach the new recruit how we work. Do what you must, now go!"

Basilio inclined his head in respect, Tazim mimicking. The younger motioned for Tazim to follow and guided him from the room in silence, passing Zamir who barely acknowledged them. At last he was part of the Brotherhood.

* * *

 **A little shorter than I had first expected but here is the next chapter! Thank you for the kind words and even more thanks for reading. Any comments or questions, go ahead and ask! Have an awesome day/night.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Guys, I can explain... I know, I know! What a terrible person I am with yet a somewhat other filler chapter? If I had not taken such a large gap and published every week as originally planned I would have honestly been finished by Halloween next month and maybe even contemplating a possible sequel idea I had (but that's a topic for another day).**

 **Still, I have finally finished editing this chapter and completed it (although I feel it could have been better but whatever)**  
 **Please enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

They waited out in the courtyards. Basilio finally staying quiet long enough for Tazim to hear himself think. As though he needed to do much thinking in the first place. They had been given their orders so now what were they waiting for? The young man let his eyes wander to the vast emptiness of the silent courtyard before hearing footsteps not too far behind him.

The Assassin, Zamir. He kept his chin up high as he took slow steps, nearing the other end of the courtyard. Basilio had turned his head, motioning to Tazim, "I must speak to Zamir now. I will not be long."

"Should I not come as well?"

"No-," he paused, thinking over his options, "No, I will just be a moment."

He had taken far less than just a moment. Speaking in hushed voices, Tazim could only observe from afar. The elder Assassin rested his hand on the youngers' shoulder, his lips barely moving as he spoke. He sent a glance in Tazim's direction before turning his gaze just as quickly.

Tazim may have even mistaken them as family, a father and son or an uncle and his nephew if it weren't for their differing appearances. The younger man's own skin was soft and lighter, sandy much like his short and mussed hair. Zamir himself had far darker features, roughened even more by time.

Basilio did not seem entirely content or perhaps convinced of what his superior had been telling him. A sour face was not something he easily or purposely hid. After exchanging a few more words, Basilio nodded his head and met Tazim once more.

With a sigh, the younger spoke, "He calls for you."

Tazim should not have felt concerned yet he could not rid himself of the feeling. Like an unscratchable itch within his very core. He neared the Assassin with a nod of his head, the older man greeting him with a warm smile.

"Tazim."

"Assassin."

Zamir chuckled. He grasped Tazim's shoulder in congratulations and patted it happily. He felt like a child with this man's hands on him. Zamir must do such thing often as he felt comfortable to do so. It almost made Tazim wonder whether the Assassin had been a father. "You have made it, brother. Just as I am leaving, off to new lands as it seems. I wished to have guided you but things do not always go as planned, if ever. Basilio will look after you."

So he had been given his orders. Abbas had quite terrible timing. The only other person whom Tazim had met would be leaving just as he had arrived. The more favored person he had met, if he was being truthful. And Zamir would be leaving him under the care of a novice only to make matters even more unfortunate.

"I can take care of myself just fine," the young man remarked.

With a light chuckle, Zamir answered calmly, "He is not so terrible as you may think. And I believe you can take care of yourself, but there is still much for you to learn."

Yes, he was right about that, but Tazim had trained himself all his life. What could this boy, hardly any older than himself, teach at all? He might have been in the Order longer than him, but Tazim was still not very content. He was being bullheaded and he knew it. It was frustrating in its own way. But there was little he could do and the young man must take whatever help given to him.

Tazim took this time to move his bag aside, motioning to the sword he uncovered, "You'd given me a blade but... I had thought to bring a weapon for myself." He untied and brought the sword up for the Assassin to examine.

Zamir gladly took it from the boys' hands. Inspecting it closely, the Assassin tilted his head, his brows knitting together. Each groove and curve became familiar. Most familiar was the weight to the sword. The designs, its age-

"No-," he strains a faint smile, followed by a dry chuckle escaping his throat, "No, Basilio will see to it that you are given proper weapons when needed."

The younger man accepted his sword once again, looking down at it as though it were defective before shaking his head in disapproval, "You put much trust and hope toward him."

Basilio was just a boy. One who didn't know when to keep his mouth shut in Tazim's own opinion. Whether he would make a good Assassin, the young man had yet to make up his mind on that factor. Still, Zamir held the other boy in quite high regard.

"As I've done the same to you," the Assassin replied truthfully, taking Tazim by the shoulder once again and giving a light squeeze before letting go. He had little time to prepare for his departure and wished only the very best for his new recruit. What few words he could say, Zamir hoped the young man would take them into consideration, "Today you close the door to your past and embark on the journey into your future, young one."

"Will we meet again?" Tazim dared to ask, unsure if he ever would see the Assassin while in Masyaf. The same Assassin who had led him there.

All Zamir did was smirk, as though that gesture alone answered his question. He took a single step away, pulling up his cowl before finally speaking with one final nod of his head, "As always, safety and peace, brother."

He was led away by Basilio shortly after, not amused in the least at the situation they were both now in. With an abrupt tour through the grounds as they ventured toward Basilio's own quarters, Tazim was able to relax his mind even if just for a few moments with their shared silence. There were few other men roaming, strolling and either soundlessly watching the two or ignoring them altogether.

At last, they would reach the youngers' chambers. Having gone through the cold halls of the castle and such a long journey from home, Tazim was looking forward to a bed of any kind as long as he had a place to rest.

"For now," Basilio spoke with a smile as they entered his bedroom, "my home is yours as well."

Tazim wasn't sure what he was expecting but he was dazed nonetheless. A modest sized room, kept clean and in order with what few items the younger had. With an empty desk near the far wall, a chest at the end of his bed, Tazim was impressed with the extra space in the bedroom no matter how cramped it truly was.

"I'll have a chest brought up where you will keep your things, clothes, personal items. You will need a bedroll for the time being." Basilio continued as he set his own belongings down in one corner, stretching his arms upward. He sighed tiredly, leaning against the cool stone wall and lazily turned his attention to the other boy.

Tazim could only nod his head and bite his tongue to suppress the stale yawn aching to be released. "And my sword?" he finally asked, setting his things on the neatly kept bed. His bag easily dropped down just as Tazim himself sat with his sword resting across his thighs, thankful at last for a moment to rest.

Basilio sighed and pushed himself from the wall, over to the other boy. The faint grin on his lips being ever so present, he took the sword from Tazim and examined it with one hand by the light coming in through his window, "Tsk, it's old... keep it in the chest. You will be given a new one."

He nodded, taking his sword again once more and sheathing it. Tazim began to gather his things, ready to put them away for the time being when he asked his next question, "And training?"

It was the reason for his departure from Jerusalem, after all. To become an Assassin in rank as well as in heritage. It was the very reason Zamir had recruited him, had it not? Although, it wouldn't be his most favored option to be trained by Basilio, Tazim could certainly come to terms with it above all else.

The younger man shrugged and gave a light shake of his head, observing Tazim. How tragic the fact that the words which would leave his mouth spoke only truth. Basilio forced a hint of hatred behind his voice, "There is little training. No discipline to urge us to train. All you must do is your job once it is given to you and not complain."

"Collecting taxes. Making deals." Tazim remarked audaciously.

"That is right," Basilio warned, his eyes becoming dark, "If you know what's best for you, you will keep quiet and go on with your duties."

Tazim kept from rolling his eyes, his tone was enough to tease the younger man, "You seem afraid of the Master."

His words more than annoyed Basilio who scoffed, took a step closer to Tazim and spat out his dismay, "I do not fear death. Now watch your tongue. Not all men here are as kind here as you may assume. Take caution."

"Noted."

Basilio turned once more, pacing and running a hand through his tangled hair. He seemed to be thinking over his plan for the remainder of the day as he suddenly brought his thumb up to his mouth, chewing on the tip of his nail and half mumbling to himself. At last, he must have come to a conclusion as the younger man sped to the trunk by his bed. Kneeling, roughly searching the trunk and acquiring an aged pair of robes.

"Now change your clothing." Basilio instructed coarsely, "Take these robes for now, Novice . We will acquire a change for you soon, " he tossed him the robes which he could spare for the time being.

Tazim nodded, catching the clothing in his arms and began to undress, "What will I do today?"

Basilio shrugged, lost in what he could make Tazim do that day as well. There would be little to nothing for him until they properly assigned him a task at all. Basilio collected the discarded clothing as the other young man changed into his new robes, having at last come up with a plan. "I'll show you how things are done. You will be my shadow. First we toss these clothes. Then, we raid food from the kitchen," he spoke with a smile, "Only after that will your special tour will begin. You will meet those in the village."

With a delicate smirk on his own face, impossible to hide, Tazim agreed. Having collected his old clothes and neatly set aside his belongings, the young man followed Basilio out into the chilly halls.

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 **So without really purposely attempting at making the chapters longer I somehow am still doing it...? I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing. I have so so so many story ideas I want to write which is the reason I take so long in finishing any story tbh. Let's take a moment to thank music because it really is helpful with writing and helped me finally publish this chapter.**

 **Any questions or comments please feel free to ask or drop me a line on Tumblr at mocosamedia (might even help me keep on my updating schedule). Have an awesome day/night!**


	8. Chapter 8

Basilio had done well in welcoming Tazim, explaining how each man had their own responsibilities and duties. Going so far as to quietly point out some of those whom Tazim should avoid. Basilio had taken him into the kitchen for a hot meal, boasting that his own food was far more exquisite and guided him all throughout the fortress. The young man was detailed in his tour, illustrating each room in the castle and its purpose. He was shown around the village and made more or less familiar with its people.

Although there had been much Basilio had done those first few days there had also been much that he had not done. Much he had been keeping from Tazim.

Tazim grew annoyed as well as tired. He had been given a proper room for himself by the third night, the chest filled with his belongings having been brought into it as well. And yet each night as he walked back to his chambers, rubbing at his sore muscles from a long days work, Tazim came to take notice of a certain light skinned fool making his way secretly through the dark halls. Every night, without fail, Basilio dissolved into the darkness.

That devious, underhanded foreign moron.

"I've noticed your absence late at night," he accused, waiting for Basilio outside his bedroom door one evening.

Tazim had occupied himself by watching his partner that day after he'd spent the entire morning crammed in the stables, grooming and feeding the horses. It is what he'd been made to do since he'd arrived at Masyaf and the young man grew sick of it. He had few opportunities to venture in search of the sole reason he had sought out the Order.

"And?" Basilio replied simply with a raise of his eyebrow, he made little attempt to move past Tazim to enter his bedroom. Relaxed and composed as though he had nothing at all to hide. Something practiced. Learned. But Tazim knew well what he observed each and every night.

"You return at times with wounds. Cuts or bruises. What is it that you do, Basilio?" Most recently, Tazim had witnessed the younger man slither back into his chamber, his robes filthy and his temple bruised and swollen the very next morning. His very cheek held a newly acquired scratch that night. He never hid his wounds but Basilio never spoke of them either. Never gave reason to speak of them.

"I like to cook," he answered easily with smirk.

Tazim narrowed his eyes, "Tell me then, was it a carrot or loaf of bread that gave you that bruise above your eye?" he finished by flicking the others' temple.

Basilio slapped his hand away and scoffed, his gaze turning ever so slightly to scan the halls. He was sure to check that they were alone. With a final roll of his eyes, the younger spoke tiredly, "Let us speak inside, you have a bigger mouth than myself."

Once inside, Basilio let himself fall heavily onto his bed, his long arms and legs stretching in every outward direction without caring that Tazim would interrogate him soon. He let out a stale groan, wanting only to sleep. After a few moments, he forced himself to turn at last, forcefully sitting up. The young man grabbed a damp rag from his bedside, dipping it into a bowl of water on the same table. Basilio motioned for Tazim to take a seat which the latter refused.

Tazim kept by the door, his chin raised high with determination and his arms firm at his sides. "Speak, Novice."

The younger man's attitude seemed more annoyed than worried or scared. He silently pressed the rag to the scratch on his cheek, wincing the slightest bit before setting it down once more. Now he would give Tazim his attention. "It humors me that you think I am afraid of you," Basilio paused, crossing his arms and speaking calmly with a sigh, "I do suppose it is time."

 _Time?_ Time for what? Tazim's brows furrowed in concern. He knew well that Basilio was a devious person. He had his way with words. That smirk of his accompanied by his wicked words always being his escape plan. Except, this time it seemed Basilio was interrogating _him._ Eyeing him over. Studying him with a certain twinkle behind his eyes,

"Brother," Basilio finally spoke, his voice gentle yet firm nonetheless, "what are your views on the Master?"

"My views?" Tazim answered, puzzled.

"It is what I said." Basilio nodded, his face having relaxed.

Tazim took a moment to respond. A moment to think on his possible answer. His views on the Brotherhood? He had _many_. He had so many questions still unanswered, so many statements he wished to make and have them be _heard_. The stories he'd once been told as a child served as a memory long forgotten for the Order. Power it once obtained now withered and crumbled at their very feet.

It was immature of Tazim to blame any particular man for the dramatic fall the Order had taken. But he was beyond certain the reason behind such adverse downfall had to do with one man in particular. The fool in power at the very moment. Their very ludicrous master.

Tazim felt the anger rise in his chest. His purpose having returned. He turned to Basilio, a faint growl to his words. "I do not believe ruthless men should be in power," the young man answered, his voice persistent, "The Order... it is not what I was made to believe."

"It has not been for a long time," Basilio added with a light shake of his head.

Tazim once more took notice of the faded bruise above Basilio's eye and the scratch on his cheek which didn't seem too deep as it had before. Basilio's already sunken eyes seemed more tired and Tazim couldn't help but wonder if his own looked the same. The other boy _must_ have been tired seeing as he left his chambers each and every night. And the location of his whereabouts, Tazim had a good guess as to where Basilio went.

"You train in secret?" It wasn't much of a question as Tazim had already presumed the answer. The cuts and bruises, the tired face of his brother. It was beyond obvious now.

Basilio nodded, keeping his face serene.

"But not alone, correct?"

"There are few others," he admitted evenly. Basilio's face became stern abruptly, his voice dangerous and low, "You will speak of it to no one unless you want your tongue cut out."

Tazim nodded unquestionably, "Then I will join you. I will train."

There was a curious grin on Basilio's face, one of which Tazim could not completely decipher. His eyes seemed amazed, like a child as they wrinkled with the amused expression on his face. It was pride that flashed across his alluring features. Prideful of the fact that Tazim had connected all the dots. Prideful that Tazim would become a loyal friend.

Of that, there was no doubt.

"Even after Zamir told me of the trust he had in you," the younger began, the grin having left his lips, "I was unsure of your recruitment. Although... I still am unsure. _Prove me wrong._ We will train but... first I need to show you."

Tazim's voice faltered, his eyes attentive, "Show me what?"

"The truth. A warning. Come."

He was taken to the village below once more. Basilio being stern as they walked briskly, avoiding other Assassin's passing them by. One of his first lessons according to the younger man. One of which held a high level of importance that Tazim should at no time forget.

"You've brought me here before already," Tazim reminded him, almost tripping over his own feet as they walked down hill.

"Yes, but this time it is different," Basilio replied, his mouth hardly moving while his eyes scanned in every direction, "You _must_ take caution, Tazim. It is not up for debate."

They entered the markets, Tazim kept close behind his companion. Basilio looking back every so often to make sure Tazim stayed close. They did their best to avoid any beggar or merchant who believed two young novice's would be easy targets.

Basilio scoffed, eyeing Tazim as he lead him through the busy streets, "Do not stray far, _Novicio._ We are almost to our destination."

Just as they turned the corner beside a stall, the two young men ran into an Assassin. Knocking into him and almost dropping the few inks he'd been carrying. Obviously of higher rank and age, the angered look on his face worked well to intimidate Tazim and Basilio. "Careful where you walk, mongrel," the Assassin growled in their direction, namely toward Basilio, "Or does your inadequacy render you blind as well?"

Basilio nodded his head sheepishly, nearly bowing, "Forgive me, I will watch my footing."

The Assassin did not appear fully content with the answer he was given, seemingly more angered by their presence than anything else. "I would hope so. Go," demanded the lone man.

Basilio nodded once more, hiding his angered expression. He then pulled on Tazim's sleeve roughly, ushering him through the alley and making their leave as quickly as possible. Tazim could not help but become annoyed, both from being pulled around and by the Assassin's bitter words. Inadequacy? What could he possibly mean by that? They were all of the same Order, they deserved to respect one another as well.

"Inadequacy?" declared Tazim as they entered a clearing near a fountain.

The other young man brushed him off. "Forget him. Some men are born idiots."

Basilio challenged his climbing. Having made him climb up to the balcony of an abandoned home, the platform hidden within the crooked branches of an overgrown tree. The stone was smooth, Tazim had some difficulty grasping its' edges and setting his foot inside the cracks and crevices. A small challenge, but Tazim had made his way atop the platform. The wooden railings of the balcony were rotten and weak, having broken from the weight of the trees' branches over the years.

From their height above the square, the two were easily capable of witnessing the ambition within it. A mother and her child carrying water or a man setting up his stall. At times even their own brothers, concealed inside an alley, taking bribes or making deals with others.

How disgraceful.

Basilio had certainly been correct. It would be wise to begin taking notice of who he should evade while in the confines of the Order as well as the village. After all, a reckless Assassin was a dead Assassin. Tazim had no plans to end his journey so soon after just having started it.

He brushed the dirt from his roughened hands on his robes and lastly turned to Basilio, "When will my real training begin?"

The younger man grew comfortable, kneeling and basking in the cool shade offered by the branches surrounding them. He looked down upon the street below before answering, "Tomorrow. After our days work. I will meet you by the stables. Now listen, Tazim."

Basilio stood to his full height once more, his face agitated as he motioned to the square below and the alleys among it. He most notably directed his attention to the few Assassin's walking among the villagers. A trio of young men grinning and whispering to each other as they witnessed an old man pass them by. "There are many loyal to Abbas. You _must_ be careful with them. They are not to be taken lightly. Tread carefully."

At that moment, Basilio took notice of a peculiar man down in the square. The Assassin from before. The younger man did not keep his discontent hidden, he bared his teeth and spoke with annoyance, "Some are simply rude and impolite. Qué molestia."

The anger and concern Tazim had earlier evaded suddenly arose in his chest once more. The disgust, the bitterness that bled from the Assassin's words. It was almost inhumane the way he had spoken to them. The way his eyes bore into Basilio's skull as if hoping he would fall dead at his feet that very moment.

"What did the Assassin mean earlier?" Tazim finally asked, pulling at the neckline of his cowl and letting a light gust of air kiss his sweat-stained neck, "Inadequacy?"

The foreign young man's shoulders stiffened. He kept his face away, looking down to the square as Tazim waited for a response. Basilio sighed at last, letting his shoulders roll back, relaxing as he spoke solemnly. "My mixed blood," he lectured as he pulled a dry leaf off from the branch beside him.

"You are of Spanish descent." Tazim concluded respectfully.

Basilio nodded to himself, concluding his thoughts, "Partially, yes. I am."

His gaze fell upon the Assassin down below, his gloved hands curled into fists. Basilio lets out a breath, forcing himself to relax before turning to Tazim once more. His face having softened, the red of his cheeks slowly disappearing. Basilio's grin returned, the crinkle in his hazel eyes never far behind.

"To them," he strains a light chuckle, pulling apart the leaf in his hand, "my blood is abnormal. I am a foreigner." Basilio shrugged, tilting his head to the side, thinking over his words, "But I do not let them get the best of me. I was taught to be better. And so I will be."

A mixed Spaniard in the lands of Masyaf. Tazim would have never known of his Muslim side, Basilio's own features portrayed that of a Spanish man as well as his voice. His light skin, pink when in the hot sun yet richly colored in an almost beautiful way. The set of his jaw, softened still because of his age and the texture of his darkened hair, made lighter when in the sunlight.

He was unafraid of telling Tazim the tale of his parents before him. The bitter fact of his departure from his homeland. It is what little he told Tazim. How could one ever be fearful of where they came from? His mother was of Spanish heritage while his father a young Muslim who had conquered her heart.

"One must never forget where they come from, Tazim. Their home. Be prideful of it," he countered, the pride in his own chest ever so present.

Tazim couldn't help the grin spreading across his lips, "And where is your home?"

"Valencia. Beautiful Valencia." Basilio leaned his head back, taking in the fresh breeze along with the departing sun in the horizon.

"You are far from home."

"As are you."

Oh, but how wrong his friend was. Tazim _was_ home at last. In Masyaf where he belonged just like his father before him. The entirety of his youth being dedicated to training, to make his father proud. He had his goal, his ambition in life. It was a pity, gazing at Basilio who enjoyed the sun on his skin. He had no reason to be in the Brotherhood. They only mocked and insulted him yet he would endure it all to prove he was _better_?

The thought alone worked to anger Tazim once again.

He shakes his head, his lips curling as his tongue spat out a foul taste. Yet for the slightest of moments, he felt an aching for the young man beside him. Tazim's features softened, his voice compassionate, "They discriminate. Cast you off as a fool from a different land when we've all come from different homes."

A sudden change of topic yet Tazim did not need to explain because Basilio understood just what he meant. It was unfamiliar to him, this type of kindness being shown. Nonetheless it was welcomed.

Basilio seemed to appreciate his words, a smile gracing his lips before he spoke, "You all come from the same lands, Tazim. I've sailed the seas to reach Masyaf."

"Still," Tazim concluded, "we all serve the same creed…"

" _...We bleed the same colored blood. "_

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 **Ooof this was a doozy. Next Chapter we'll have Tazim training at last! I hope you all are enjoying this story so far, I do my best to work on it and update whenever possible. As usual, any questions or comments are greatly appreciated! Have an amazing day/night see you next time!**


	9. Chapter 9

Tazim had begun to tire of his fruitless days spent in the stable, tending to the horses. Although, at times, he found their company far more favorable than that of anyone one else. Lately, he began taking his book along with him to read each morning on his way there. Never tiring of it. He'd been grateful to find it among his belongings, having not realized he'd brought along his mother's book with him to Masyaf.

Not only his mothers' book, his fathers' as well. Whenever he had the spare time, the young man would find a nearby bench and begin reading once more. Occasionally, he found himself reading to the horses as well.

He'd come to think of the grand library the Master had in his possession, with an extensive amount of books and wished to thoroughly see it. The wisdom and knowledge it so surely must possess entranced Tazim's young mind. Nevertheless, it was unknown to him whether it was acceptable to venture into the fortress in search of the library and so Tazim had never troubled himself with it. That and he much preferred to avoid any of the other Assassin's after his encounter while with Basilio in the village.

The other's, at times, made him feel uneasy. Whether he acknowledged the emotion or not, Tazim had been angered.

He could instead buy a new book in the village if he ever needed one. And it made sense to him, going into the village to instead buy a new book that he could own. Although he certainly would miss out on the material within the books of the Order.

That afternoon, after he finished his work in the stable, Tazim took comfort underneath the shade of a tree not too far from the horses. He would need to wait for Basilio as they planned the day before. While he began his reading, he let his mind drift away. What would Zamir think of him now if he were to decide to ride into Masyaf that very moment? Such simple thoughts and yet Tazim reflected on them more often than not…

Yet there was one question on his mind he continued to nurture from time to time.

 _What would my father think of me?_

His father, great and triumphant as Tazim would always imagine. His legacy, that which Tazim could only ever hope to amount to. Still, Tazim had yet to find answers. His father was not in the Masyaf castle, but soon he would find him.

He ran his tired hand along the brittle and soiled pages of his beloved book, remembering his mother's words. How his father had gifted his name in exchange for the text, the same book with which he would later teach Amani to read with. Tazim could only imagine them both, his father pressing the woman to read aloud to him as Amani had done with her own son years later. He reminisced pleasantly over the thought of his father and the stories he'd been given of the man.

" _Stubborn…_ " Tazim mumbled to himself, closing his eyes and leaned his head back on the stone wall behind him, "He was stubborn… wise and capable."

His father was many things, Tazim knew. Proud. Sincere. Honest and good. Tazim imagined, his father as a young man, walking up the steep hill of the castle after a successful kill. The same he and countless others journeyed through each day to return to the fortress. His robes, the same of which Tazim now proudly wore. The halls of which he walked, graced with his aura. Tazim could only imagine his father in his youth.

He wondered what his father looked like in his own Assassin robes. Had he ever worked in the stable as well? What did his voice sound like as a young man? Did he ever train any of the new recruits? Was he prideful once graduating into a ranking Assassin?

 _Had he smiled?_

Grazing his chin, the young man speculated quietly, the ghost of a smile on his lips, "A warrior..."

Cloaked in secrecy, Tazim thought, but wise beyond his years. At times, Tazim feared he overestimated his father's personality but soon brushed the thoughts away. He could only ever have positive things to take from his father, to display for him as well.

As Tazim continued his list of traits, a voice called out to him suddenly, "What is it that you are doing, child?"

He looked up, alarmed for a partial moment before relaxing once realizing who it was.

There stood Basilio, his ever so present grin plastered on his face. Like a child, his softened face seeming to oppose the rest of his body. His limbs, lanky and gaunt, awkwardly thin. His weight being more dramatically noticed because of his height, just barely taller than Tazim himself.

How he'd ever become an Assassin with such a meager physique, Tazim would never know.

"I am not a child, you are younger than I am," Tazim bit back, closing his book and stretching his muscles before standing. He felt the kiss of cold air hit his skin, realizing the darkness of night blanketing over them.

"Our heights beg to differ," The Spanish boy countered with a wave of his hand, "Come, we are late." He turned, his hands at his core, carrying something which Tazim could not yet identify.

Tazim was quick in hiding his book within a hidden crevice in the stable, he would be able to find it later. He rushed quickly to catch up to Basilio who suddenly felt the need to be hasty in his walk. "Where have you been?" he asked, unamused and quite honestly annoyed.

It was then that Tazim took distinct notice of the item in Basilio's grasp, covered lightly in cheesecloth. The younger boy held it carefully, not slowing down his pace in the least as they ventured into the village. His grin only seemed to become more prominent, "I've a treat for you."

Without slowing his pace, Basilio handed the item to Tazim who took it with no hesitation. He unwrapped the cloth, surprised with his findings, "Bread?"

"Three hours that took me!" the younger man pointed out, "You'll need strength. You are getting thinner than even myself."

Tazim nurtured the idea of a possible poisoning done by the Spaniard but his angered stomach was quick to destroy those thoughts. Hungrily, Tazim devoured the treat. He had not eaten since breakfast and had been awaiting Basilio longer than intended. Although irritated and angry, Tazim was gracious for his baked gift.

On their walk, Basilio explained the ways of those Tazim would meet. Why they trained in secret. Training was not entirely forbidden in the Order, the Spaniard made clear to him. But it was not commonly practiced either. The men had become lethargic under Abbas' rule, selfish and weary. They were lazy. Caring only to be named as Assassin's and hardly anything more.

"We must rise in rank evidently, of course," he'd made clear. The most prominent reason for training among the Order if not the sole reason.

Most who trained actively, those who Tazim would become familiar with, believed in the old ways of the Assassin's and were loyal to their true Master. They believed in the tales they told themselves, Altair would return one day and reclaim the Assassin's. Restore the pride and honor to the name. To the Order itself.

Basilio passionately believed in the tales of their previous Master. That he would one day return, that his supposed death was simply a false accusation. Although, his voice was hushed, afraid much like his mother's had been when gifting Tazim stories as a boy.

The Spaniard guided him, quietly, through the alleys of the village. Making sure they would not be followed, the two kept to the shadows of the homes around them, making use of what little illumination the moon offered that night. The stars above were their only witness to what wicked things they would venture out to accomplish.

They crept from within the village, escaping the borders of the city through a well found cavity Basilio steered him through. One of which was hidden efficiently among the city's walls, behind a deserted home.

For the next few minutes, Basilio was silent, which thoroughly surprised Tazim. His praise for Altair and his obscure faith in their loyal brothers had reduced to a mere mumble of his lips. Basilio looked to the sky, he ambled through tall grass, turned after arriving at a certain tree or at times stopped altogether, hushing Tazim before continuing their walk once more.

At last, they reached a defoliated area. A nook, cozily settled among soft grass and shrubs with boulders of varying sizes serving as a rough barrier around them. Hidden from the view of any who did not already know of its location. Settled comfortably besides a soft flowing creek nearby. A fire was set, enough to shed a faint light on the area yet small enough to not attract attention.

Tazim took notice the men already gathered. They were engaged in their training, not at all taking notice the two boys having just arrived. Those who did not wear their cowl, Tazim realized, were among his own age. He counted at least twelve, most wearing the gray sleeves of a ranking novice and the rest displaying their deadly white.

Each had busied himself one way or another. A trio on one end took turns, flinging throwing knives into a dummy made of wood. Beside them, another man busied himself with a novice, sparring with their swords as did two other Assassins nearby. To his left, toward the creek, others busied themselves, either men sharpening their blades or practicing in disarming one another with varying techniques.

Tazim had not noticed the pair of eyes that so sharply detected their presence.

"A new recruit?" a voice mocked from behind them. Tazim and Basilio turned, noticing a boy now nearing them with a hint of eagerness in his raspy voice. His boisterous words had caught the attention of some of the other men, surely having been done so purposely.

Although wearing his cowl, Tazim could notice the dirt and grime covering the stranger's cheeks, now irritated from an attempt of being wiped clean beforehand. His overall demeanor made Tazim's nose wrinkle in disgust. He didn't seem much older than Tazim himself, his gray sleeves were torn from one arm and the other seemed to have been burnt.

Basilio was quick with his words, boldly facing the other boy. Annoyed for having even been spoken to, his attitude more prominent than before. "No, a stray cat." he swiftly answered, a light growl in his words, "Why else would I bring him in, Tarek?"

Tazim's entire face soured, his eyebrows furrowed all the while he took in not only the boy before them but his surroundings as well. The only sounds now being the stern mumbles between the few men, and the gentle motion of the creek not too far from them. Some had abandoned their training entirely, having heard Tarek's loud reprimand and finding the new recruit to be far more intriguing.

"You understand the consequence of taking such actions among us, do you not?" The boy lectured, ignoring the previous insult.

"Death."

"Dishonorable death." he nodded, his eye's challenging Basilio. If any of them were to be caught, the punishment would be severe.

If he was uncomfortable or intimidated, Basilio showed none of it. His own replies came out fluidly, his tongue spitting out poisonous words, "Only if my recruit happens to be a traitor. Does he look like a traitor to you?"

"No. But yourself on the other hand..."

Basilio's demeanor became rigid, his eyes angry and annoyed. His lips curled in disgust. "Infant. All you are is an infant," he spat out, "A _child_ dressed in a man's armor much too large for him."

The other boy held his chin up, a smirk hidden within the shadows of his face. He threatened the Spanish boy, the slightest hint of amusement in his tone,"Zamir should teach you manners when he returns."

The younger teen scoffed, waving his hand dismissively, "He is not my father."

"You almost had me fooled. You've always followed him like a lost pup."

Basilio's voice rose, he was eager to state his business with them that night and Tarek was pestering him, "Will my recruit be given the chance to fight or will you keep spitting out mockeries? Hmm? Afraid he will best you in combat, Tarek?"

At his words, Tazim stepped forward, standing at his companion's side. This crude boy was coming in between him and his training. No one else seemed to want to interrupt, instead finding the ordeal interesting and amusing. Tarek smelt of burnt hay, a dreadful scent to Tazim's nose. He eye'd Tazim primitively, his glare deepening as he judged the novice leveled boy.

"Afraid for his own well being perhaps. Does he have what it takes?" Tarek challenged, a mischievous grin tugging at his dry lips.

He did not fully like the fact that Basilio was speaking for him. Tazim could defend and speak for himself just fine. Before the Spanish boy was able to utter a word, Tazim cut in, stepping forward, "Let me show you."

Tarek studied the new recruit. His dark eyes becoming more sinister yet Tazim did not falter. He refused to be pushed around by this boy, one of which claimed to be a loyalist to Altair as much as the others. His voice annoyed Tazim, deep and feigning authority.

"Rafi will take the first spar," The boy called out roughly after a moment, "Rafael!"

Out from within the group of men scattered about, a young boy appeared. The same who had been sparring with another as Basilio and Tazim had arrived. No older than fifteen, his ruffled hair filled with sweat and his eyes both wide and curious as he trotted toward them. He was lively, not wanting to misuse any moment in training.

An older Assassin had approved their match, one of which kept watch over most of the men. His task primarily being to bandage any wounds or stand guard among the border of their training grounds. He cared little for their childish brawls and insults, it tired him further. After giving confirmation, he turned to rest under a tree while the others had their fun. He would observe from afar.

Tarek and Basilio urged and pressed the rowdy men to make space for the two combatants before them. Basilio had done so little as to whisper a soft _'Be nimble'_ to Tazim before joining the crowd surrounding him and the younger novice.

Swordsmanship was his first trial, it seemed.

They'd each been given a wooden sword, much to Tazim's relief. The young Rafael had sheepishly given one to Tazim and quickly returned with another for himself. The other few men around them seemed more disappointed, hoping for a more amusing sense of entertainment that night.

They wanted bloodshed, Tazim surmised.

"Whenever you are ready," called the older Assassin from his resting place, well hidden behind the others.

The men waited in anticipation, most mumbling or speaking to one another, speculating how the match would develop.

Tazim was first to attack, much like he had been during his brawl with Zamir. He ran, his arms held high as he brought his sword down on his opponent. Rafi was able to easily deflect, his sword moving fluidly and stepped to the side. Again, Tazim turned and swung horizontally now. Yet just the same, he was met with the wood of Rafi's own weapon before being propelled away from his competitor with a heavy amount of force that dazed him.

Rafi may have been younger than Tazim but in truth, he was more experienced, having trained with the Assassin's from a young age. Tazim had only ever trained by himself, or at times with Rahim, being lectured by his uncle passively. The novice knew this practice well.

Rafi studied his movements, stepping aside slowly like a lion watching its prey. With found determination, he attacked, swinging his wooden sword which Tazim hastily, yet anxiously, deflected with his own weapon. The tip of the wooden sword's blade grazed his shoulder and he was thankful it was not a real blade. Tazim mentally cursed to himself, this boy was far more capable than his shy demeanor led him to believe.

Tazim's gaze fell upon a few of the Assassins, some nodding in approval and others waving their hands in dismissal. Basilio, ever so eager with Tarek at his side, both boy's with their fists clenched tightly.

Not a moment to catch his bearings and Rafi was abruptly upon him once more, charging with all his might. The crowd of Assassin's roared out with enthusiastic shouts and cheers over the exciting brawl before them. Within an instant, Rafi had swung hard, hurling Tazim's sword out of his hands before turning and kicking him, knocking the older boy to the ground with a grunt of force.

"¡ _Levántate_! Defend, Tazim!" Basilio's voice rang out.

Rafi's sword pummeled down on Tazim who rolled to one side and then quickly to another. His weapon had been knocked far away from him, he had to act fast. Basilio's shouts filled his ears and Tazim urged himself for a solution.

Without a second thought, he spotted an opening and was able to kick Rafi's ankle with much precision and force. Rafi bounded backwards, stumbling yet forcing himself to stay on his feet. Tazim took the chance to hastily stand, his hand grasping a mix of dirt and sand and hurling it toward his opponent's face, although mildly unintentionally.

The sounds of the Assassin's kept him lively, their cheers and claps as well as their disapproving reprimands. Tarek yelled out, anger filling his lungs as he did not like Tazim's tactics. Surely the kick to Rafi's ankle and the prideless thrust of dirt, "Mutt! That is unfair!"

"Life is unfair!" Basilio answered quickly, "His leg was not broken."

It seemed their sparring match had ended quickly as both boys collected themselves. Each one nursing a different wound. Rafi rubbed at his eyes, cleaning the filth from his face. He did not appear to have severely hurt his leg. He began to soon pace about in circles and dispersing the pain in his ankle but kept his gaze lowered.

Tazim held a hand to his stomach, doing his best to level his breathing. His coughs for air not at all hidden from the others. He felt sick. His head throbbed and his ribs hurt unlike anything he had ever experienced.

After a few moments, Rafi came to check on him, a meager look on his reddened face, "My apologies. You are not seriously hurt, are you?"

"Of course not." Tazim forced out with a groan, attempting to stand straight.

Basilio came to his side briskly. He brushed Tazim off, offering his help entirely. Tazim disliked it. He was no child and he had not been gravely injured. "Mind your balance, Tazim." The Spanish boy commented. His attention then turned to the other boy, scolding him, "Rafi, dance about, it is practice is it not?"

The younger boy apologized timidly, nodding his head in acknowledgment to Basilio. He excused himself and soon went to join the other men in discussion. Tarek yelled to them from afar but considerately left Basilio to speak with his recruit.

"Are you alright?" he asked as soon as Rafi was out of earshot, his eyes narrowed on the few visible scratches covering his recruits' face.

Tazim nodded, not wanting to seem defeated. He refused to seem weak, "I am alive."

"Good. You must keep your knees bent, Tazim, and your guard up. Rafi is no swordsman." Basilio reassured with a kind grasp of his shoulder.

"That I can believe." Rafi had been a brute. He had no brain in Tazim's opinion. He gave one last deep breath before standing to his full height, shaking the dizziness from his sight and ignoring the nausea in his stomach.

Even from afar, Tazim took notice the angry, burnt smelling boy coming their way. "Be rid of that childish tool, Novice," Tarek scolded, grabbing both wooden swords from the ground and tossing them roughly aside, "A man is only as strong as his fists and his wits." He would be the one to show Tazim how ruthless their ways could be. Judging by his glare, the older boy would not be as merciful to him as Rafi had been prior.

The men once more stepped back. Farther back this time than before. Some crossed their arms, a fragile grin on their faces while others removed their hoods entirely to better their sight of the duel. It did not worry Tazim at the time. He blocked out all doubt and fear. This boy would not frighten him so easily.

Tazim was his fathers' son, he would not give in to intimidation.

The two awaited for their brawl to be initiated, watching one another in careful inspection. Basilio had little trouble in keeping the other men at bay. They knew what Tazim had only surmised so far. His opponent was far too headstrong and much too prideful for his own good.

"You must understand what it is like to be hurt," Tarek lectured as he eyed Tazim dangerously.

Basilio called out the start of the match, the others leaning in expectantly. It was Tarek who launched himself into the fight. Tazim held up his fists, one farther out than the other but it helped him very little as his opponent neared and immediately kicked him across his abdomen, driving him backwards. His already wounded torso ached with far more pain.

The gathered men winced and Basilio called out, incoherent words to Tazim's ears. He coughed and spit to the side, gathering himself and standing quickly although his vision blurred. The silhouette in his vision grew larger, growling and Tazim brought his fists up once more in defense.

As Tazim had previously believed, Tarek showed no compassion as their sparring match went on. Tazim had little to no chance in besting him, he knew that much. But he had learned from the way Rafi had calculated his own movements. He too must take care and study his partners' actions. Tarek was a boy and nothing more. He was human, no more special than Tazim himself.

He could hear the chants from Basilio behind him and Tazim rushed forward, meeting his opponent and letting his fist drive straight to the other boys' cheek. Tarek had been stunned for a few seconds though his own fist had landed on Tazim's nose, earning a sudden crack from the hit and warm blood gushed from his nostrils.

"Defend! Arms up!" he heard Basilio's voice from afar.

Tazim's eyes watered, unable to compose himself so hastily, he instinctively let his fists hit whatever they could. He felt the weight of Tarek's shoulder on his own and all Tazim could do was grab hold, hoping his other fist met swiftly with the boy's ribs.

Tarek grew annoyed, grasping Tazim and pushing him apart from himself. The strength in such momentum sent Tazim bounding backwards to the crowd's feet. His opponent trudged forward, his stomping grew heavy, attempting to startle the younger boy.

Before Tarek could trample him any further, Tazim rolled forward, trying his best to avoid getting struck. From behind him, he could hear a few of the other men mocking his ways of defense as the young boy continued to recoil and evade Tarek's stomps to the dirt.

"Use your weapon!" Basilio cried out, frustrated to no end.

Tazim rolled to the side once more, doing his best to avoid Tarek at all costs. With the men chanting out and Basilio ordering him around, the young man grew increasingly more anxious and outraged.

"There _is_ no weapon!" he called out angrily, his voice nearly breaking.

"Your fists! Be nimble! On your feet, Tazim! _"_

Yet he had not been nimble enough. Tarek had grasped his leg, dragging Tazim backward. Tazim's legs thought before he had and kicked his opponent straight across his jaw, giving him enough chance to stand and wipe his own bloodied nose.

The solid kick to his jaw was enough to anger Tarek who grabbed Tazim's arm, pulling him back to their fight, his fist in turn landing harshly on his cheekbone. Tazim felt himself recoil from the hit, bending downward when Tarek's knee then rose swiftly, slamming right into his chest and sent him bounding backwards.

He felt the solid ground underneath him, his head throbbed painfully and Tazim felt the sudden burden of death. Such a dishonorable way for him to be dispatched from the world. Tarek's weight was suddenly upon him, all Tazim could do was hold his arms over his face in hopes of not being disfigured by his opponent as the boy pounced and rained blow after blow down on him.

"Enough!" Basilio declared at last, jumping down from his perched position among the boulders. He pushed his way through the group of men as they did nothing to stop the animalistic behavior before them, only wincing and observing with pity in their eyes.

Tarek's hits ceased long enough for him to glance upward. He removed himself from atop Tazim, resting on his heels instead. "The mutt has decided to join!" he bellowed with a point of his finger.

"I said _enough_." the other boy demanded in a low growl, "We will not have you murder my recruit."

The other men had the decency to step away from the devoid area that served as their makeshift ring. Few cast their glances, their eyes hidden within the shadows of their cowls. Tarek brushed the filth from his robes and stood, casting a dangerous glance toward Basilio before making his leave amongst the others.

"You fought honorably," the Spaniard comforted, helping Tazim to his feet and dusting him off. He ignored the obvious swelling on the others' cheekbone and his blood stained face.

Coughing, Tazim's voice roughened with defeat, "I was terrible."

"Yes- Yes, you were."

Tazim had traveled from home to find _something_. To make his father proud, the single ideal that kept him going. And yet there he was, getting beaten to a bloody pulp only days after having been recruited. How could he ever possibly think his father would become proud of him now?

Basilio was at least kind enough to rid Tazim of his dreaded anxiety amongst the others. Bringing him to the far end of the creek, away from the men in order to soothe and tend to his injuries. The elder Assassin, their healer, had been excused by Basilio previously over the matters of the young man's wounds. Tazim was thankful, he did not wish for the others to see him in such a weakened state and was sure the Spanish boy knew it as well.

There was little they could do over his tattered and destroyed robes until they returned to the castle. All the while Basilio cleaned his more minor cuts, Tazim took notice the pained expression on his face. Bitter anger in such innocent eyes. He seemed almost as destroyed as Tazim felt.

The Spanish boy finally spoke, having gently wiped away the remaining blood with a wet cloth and began with applying an salve, "I should have warned you. I apologize."

Tazim felt yet another prick within himself. A sense of _respect_ for his newly found friend and not solely because of Basilio's 'ill-blood'. It was not respect out of pity toward the Spanish boy. Basilio treated him no differently than Tazim would have treated anyone in his position. If anything, Basilio treated him as though Tazim were his most delicately prized friend. His only friend, a fact Tazim knew fairly well but spoke nothing of.

"Nonsense." Tazim answered easily, his mouth tasted like copper and the salve smelled terrible. He struggled in sitting upright with the pain from his abdomen but pushed through the sensation. His father would not have raised a coward.

Basilio shook his head earnestly, "A warning may have aided you."

"It would not have made me any faster nor any stronger." Tazim cut him off quickly. He would have still been defeated anyway, a warning would have not changed that. A warning would not have suddenly gifted him with the skills of an excellent fighter nor the speed of an experienced Assassin. He had been defeated, a fact Tazim would accept and learn from.

Though his friend was not easily convinced. Nor did he easily feel unburdened of the blame that was Tazim's injured face and spirit. He hid it well, Basilio knew, his tattered spirit blending well behind the pride in his broken voice. Basilio had very little to offer but knew just the way to redeem himself.

"I can teach you how to fight. You will learn here, of course, but-" he took a moment to think over his words, a rare occurrence for the young boy, "But I can offer you individual guidance as well."

That was enough to make Tazim smile in content, tugging at the bruise having formed on the corner of his lips, "Thank you."

Basilio kept his head bent slightly, doing his best to hide the grin from his face. He continued rubbing the salve on Tazim's wounds and the young man's thoughts resurfaced from the few days prior. A certain question he had been waiting to ask Basilio. Their private time together, away from the eyes and ears of the other men was an advantage Tazim would not shy away from.

"You've said before, traitors were put to death." Tazim began to say, his gaze turning to Basilio, "Were they buried?"

Basilio nodded, discarding the bloodied bandages and cloth Tazim had stained. He gave a deep breath, ready for the discussion soon to be had. "By those still loyal at the time, yes. Before they themselves were put to death and discarded. A final act of respect and loyalty to the very death."

"Where?"

"Beyond the hill." he took his time with the bandages. His hands were careful, rolling each unused piece and making a pile of the soiled ones. Tazim himself seemed more relaxed from his injuries and stimulated into their conversation. "The true master's wife, youngest son, and second in command. His burial was the most... unpleasant."

"Why is that?" Tazim's voice was precise and gentle. He knew exactly who Basilio spoke of.

"You don't know?" He looked up from the rolled cloths in his lap, lips parted. In such a light, Tazim could think his brother to be beautiful almost. His Spanish heritage overpowering his boyish features, "Malik... second in command. Close friend. Brother. He was imprisoned for two years, beheaded soon after. That is to put it most simply."

Tazim swallowed hard. He felt the heat gathering around his neck, the sweat collecting within his palms. The heavy weight being brought down upon his chest. He froze. Feeling unnerved, having his entire soul ripped from inside his rigid body.

Dread filled his entire being.

He forced out his words, a faint breath escaping his lips, "The bastard..."

No matter how hard he pushed it down. Tazim could not rid himself of the dreaded feeling in his gut. He wanted to cry. He was angry. He was miserable. His eyes were tainted with the tears he had yet to shed.

"No death is kind, Tazim." Basilio responded soon enough, "The tragedy is only the story behind their deaths. All under the order of the fool in the tower at this very moment."

Basilio had finally set aside the bandages and soiled rags. His being radiated a calming energy, his voice working in only enhancing such sensation. The Spanish boy spoke angrily yet the strength behind his voice felt appeasing to Tazim's ears as the dreaded pain lingered in his chest.

"How were the other's killed?" Tazim felt uneasy to even utter their names. He pushed through the sudden anxiousness in his belly, the cold sweat of his palms and forehead.

"As he slept, Sef was awoken by a blade. He was told his death was ordered by his own father." Basilio explained with the bitterness rising in his softened voice.

"They lied to him." Tazim accused.

"Malik was then imprisoned, blamed for the death of the masters youngest son." The anger in his voice, although passionate, came out from Basilio's mouth in a soothing manner to Tazim's ears. As though the young boy were physically incapable of expressing any violent rage no matter how hard he tried.

"But he returned. Altair, I mean. Confronted Abbas." Tazim recalled the stories they all grew familiar with. The stories he was given as a child by his mother. Perhaps even the same stories of which the other men were told by loyal Assassin's before them.

The Spanish boy nodded solemnly, "At what cost? His wife, a great fighter. But their story is for a different day."

Basilio gathered his things, the bandages both soiled and clean as well as the few discarded pieces of clothing Tazim had removed. Looking back to their small camp, most men had retired while few others lingered either speaking with one another or continue their training.

"Come," the Spanish boy beckoned, "it is late. We should rest."

Tazim made no attempt at standing up. He kept his hands together for warmth and decided he would not return to the fortress just yet. He had many questions on his mind and the answers had at last been presented. "Go ahead, I'll only be a moment."

Basilio was respectful in his leaving, assuming Tazim would want time to himself. Time enough to process the information he was given as well as the experience from his lost spar matches. He bid his friend goodnight and was off, leaving Tazim to his own thoughts for the night.

The young man's gaze turned to the hill just beyond their encampment. _Buried just beyond the hill._ "So, that is where you lay hidden," Tazim found himself saying.

His father, so prideful and so honorable. So _lifeless._ Hopeless. Tazim felt it. The sudden weight dawned on him, the seriousness of his presence in the Masyaf fortress. The possibility of death had crossed his mind few times before, yet at that very moment did it set in at last.

It did not take him long to find his father. The hill of which he resided was a modest resting place for his father and the other's. Tazim paid his respects to the Master's son and wife, having first found their disheveled graves. At a distant, he eye'd the corner of a gravestone.

There was a patch of weeds before him although the area was mostly surrounded by dried dirt and pebbles. Tazim felt the ache within his chest begin to rise once more. He swallowed roughly, reaching down to pull the weeds from their place and tossing them away.

" _Baba_. I've arrived."

* * *

 **Merry Christmas! If there are any mistakes please blame my sleep deprived self because I am soooo tired. I just had to finish this chapter though as a christmas gift so here you go. Dudes, I could have been sleeping but nopes. One hour left of Christmas so let's make it count.**

 **Questions and comments are appreciated please enjoy, Merry Christmas 2019 and have a good night or day, I am deceased!**


	10. Chapter 10

Tazim took a breath, the cool night air helped clear his crowded mind. What could he possibly say to his father? The man who had been a legend in his eyes all throughout his young life. The man of which Tazim was gifted stories of as a boy. The very same man that Tazim idolized, whom he ventured far from home for and wanted to prove himself to.

The same man who Tazim carried within.

He must be careful with his words. The young man bent down thoughtfully, clearing the grave of any scattered weeds or misplaced stone. The few dried leaves and unwanted pebbles were tossed away. His father's grave, untouched for far too many years, brought a level of pleasurable comfort to Tazim.

The answer of his absence had always so plainly presented itself before him. Tazim had rejected it, he _had been_ rejecting it all his life. The teasing he endured as a child, the mocking from Rahim and at last the ignorance of his mother who had already figured it out herself. His father would never return home to them. Naivety or foolishness, whatever he dared call it, Tazim had already known.

Yet seeing it so clearly before him, Tazim would never understand why he felt so astonished. Perhaps over the fact that his father had no means of returning home or perhaps because Tazim would never in his life have the chance of meeting the man who came before him.

"I was unsure of what I would find coming here." The young man began calmly, almost too timid to voice his thoughts, "Although, I believe some part of me must have already known. I needed only to see with my own eyes. To see _you."_

Tazim felt the lick of anguish across his soul. There were no words in the world to express his current state. He _must_ have already known, deep within himself. Resting his palm against the frigid stone, his fingers lingering ever so carefully against the edges. "All my life I have trained to make you proud."

Reminded of the years he spent preparing for that very moment, Tazim felt a dreaded knot form in his throat. He was reminded of all the days of misery and torment from the other children. Every story his mother gifted him with on nights he refused to sleep, all filling his heart with the craved feeling of hope. Acceptance, of which only his father could grant. Of _pride_.

The young man wiped away the dirt from his face and dried patches of blood. He felt the familiar stench of embarrassment from not too long ago during his spar and recruitment among the men. "I-I've nothing to offer you," he began, "for that, I am sorry."

He'd been beaten like a child. Always beaten. How could he ever begin to compare with his father. How he only wished his mother could be at his side. Tazim could only imagine the weighted history that had transpired before him. He felt so unworthy yet all the same, the pressed emotion of admiration. "Mother is well. She misses you, though she would never speak it aloud." his voice hitched and Tazim paused, taking a shaky breath, " _I miss you."_

Tazim felt the weight of sudden anger, of hurt and betrayal all burst from inside him. It wasn't as though his father were the only man to have ever died in the world. But to Tazim, he may very well have been. To lose someone he never even had the chance to meet or perhaps remember. _Remember_ should have been the better word. He _had_ met him as a baby. If only Tazim could remember those moments. What he would give to recall those days. Had his father ever held him? Had he comforted Tazim on nights he was unable to sleep.

The thoughts continued to wash over into his mind. His eyes becoming wet, damp with the thought of what could have been. The young boy could only wipe the silent tears away as they travelled down his soiled face. "It is strange," Tazim cleared his throat, scratched with the rumble of passion clear within his chest. He did not wish to cry yet the tears had formed, "to miss someone you've never met."

His voice became hoarse at the tight knot in his throat, refusing to let him speak, "To love someone who you've only known from stories."

The sudden urge to scream out into the night was one Tazim could hardly contain. What could have been done to ensure his father's safety? If precautions had been taken, would his father had lived a full life with Tazim at his side? If only he had been there earlier, Tazim had so much he wished to tell his father. So many emotions he wanted to express. Bubbling inside him were the words choking his soul and collapsing his very heart.

Tazim's voice made him feel weak, it made him feel so vulnerable. The wetness of his words, the tears staining his face, he fought his hardest to keep the emotions at bay, "I am sorry for not arriving sooner. I've walked the same halls you once graced with your presence. I only hope to be as noble a fighter as you once were."

There were many things in Tazim's life that he worked hard at. At that moment the only thing he craved was to _feel_ wanted. To feel whole. To feel that his journey to Masyaf was not a wrong decision made by a foolish boy. He wanted to hear his father's own words, to be spoken to, to be _proud_ of him. Perhaps that time may come, but for now, he would need to be content in having found his family. His home.

Sometimes, Tazim needed only to breathe. He did not feel any better, yet he did not feel any worse.

"They will notice my absence," Tazim wiped his nose roughly with his sleeve. Standing once more, brushing the dirt from his knees, the young man set his hand atop the gravestone, "I will not be far. You will no longer be alone, _baba_. I promise."

He would no longer be alone in such a cruel place, Tazim would see to it himself. Neither of them would be alone anymore.

Within a single day, it seemed Tazim's own blood and sweat displayed more vigor and far more confidence than he had on the night of his recruitment. There were few men whom he could properly identify that were loyal just as he and Basilio, but those that knew _him_ were sure to offer a solemn nod of respect his way when passing.

Respect enough for his sparring, though having been beaten, Tazim kept his chin high and that alone was enough to gain their thoughtfulness.

Even befriending Basilio came with its advantages as much as disadvantages. The Spanish boy was ever so rarely quiet, most always opting to speak his mind quite vividly. They had yet to begin Tazim's more personal training lessons, and the young man grew increasingly irritated.

Almost a week after Tazim's sparring, the other boy meagerly wandered to his side during the breakfast hour. With only a small bowl in his hands, Basilio sat across from Tazim with no greeting that morning. His head hung low and his cowl over his head, though no one paid any attention to him, and a distinct growing red mark across his cheekbone. Fresh, Tazim thought, a recent injury. It felt almost _wrong_ to see Basilio in such a state, the injury seemed far too prominent against his soft skin. The red mark of a roughened hand across his cheek felt out of place against the rest of his young face.

It felt shameful to him, Tazim knew the precise reason behind the cruel mark. The unfairness of the situation only served to feed his growing anger. "The Master called you in."

It was no secret that a small handful of the men in the Order had been called upon recently. Each one of them having been questioned on a particular matter. Basilio, it seemed, had received a more brute conference than the others.

"They believed I would know of Zamir's whereabouts." Basilio answered, reaching into his bowl with a scanty amount of cut fruit. Tazim eyed the way his delicate fingers twitched and shook as he took hold of a slice of pear. Basilio took notice of his friend's gaze, a scoff escaping his lips as he forced out a crooked smile of reassurance, popping the piece of fruit in his mouth quickly.

"Something tells me you do not," Tazim muttered, wiping his own cheek to acknowledge Basilio's injury.

Tazim, among the rest of the Order were well informed on the news spreading about. Though they would be scolded for knowing before any official report was made, it never kept the men from talking. Zamir had betrayed them, spoke the whispers and voices in the halls, his true alliance and loyalty being not to their Master but the one who had left them long ago.

How he had been caught, they may never know, though it would be helpful to them. They too could be cast off much like their superior. What little information they knew, they guarded well. Zamir was on the run, like a dog being sent off only to die. He may as well be dead, Tazim thought.

Basilio acted as though his mouth were sewn shut, Tazim welcomed the silence but it worried him still. The older man and his new friend had been a pair, from what little he knew. Tazim wanted to know more, he had the right to know as he was just as much a target as either of them, given their true loyalty. Yet now was not the time for questions.

Basilio sensed the concerning presence within Tazim's mind and quickly drew his attention elsewhere. "Eat your food, _Novicio_ ," he rebuked, sighing as exhaustion from the morning settled over him, "There is still work to be done, as if the life of an Assassin."

"And training?" Tazim answered, he could only hope the young man would at last deem them recovered enough to train once more. They had done nothing but rest and work in their respectable areas during the day since Tazim's first meeting. Some nights, the duo snuck away in search of their own nook of sorts to have their lessons. Tazim had grown eager to recover from his injuries so he and Basilio could resume their training.

"Not tonight," the young man answered with a devilish grin, the mark on his face long forgotten. They deserved a night to themselves, "Tonight we are free to be young fools."

The duo scampered into the village below that very evening after their busy day came to an end. Basilio particularly taking notice the obvious worry remaining on his friend's face from that morning.

The Spanish boy occasionally gave a teasing push to his partner every so often and Tazim nudged him in return. It was enough to peel the frown right from Tazim's face as they frolicked about like the pair of young fools they set off to be. Some men eyed them curiously but the two young boys went on with their silly night.

A few merchants had yet to retire for the night, taking advantage of every second of sunlight left in the day. Basilio took particular interest in those few who still had their merchandise out in the open, most of which sold a variety of fruits.

"Have you ever stolen anything?" Basilio finally spoke, a boyish grin spreading across his lips. His eyes scanned over the stalls and vendors among their goods.

"Stolen?" Tazim answered, vaguely insulted by such a question.

The other boy could only smile, like a young toddler having just learned to walk. He brought his arm over Tazim's shoulder, bringing the boy close, "When I was small, I liked to take fruits from the vendors. Oranges were best for the hottest days."

"Of course you were a thief." Tazim rolled his eyes, ignoring just how comfortable the other was with him. It wasn't difficult to imagine Basilio as a small boy, eager to steal on a hot summer day. Looking over at him now, Tazim eyed the other boy's hair in particular and wondered if he had ever combed it when he was young. Had his mother run her hands through his hair, like Amani had done so for Tazim many times before? Would she scold Basilio if ever returning with injuries?

Tazim found that the more he tried forgetting about his home, of his mother and family, the more they persisted and appeared into his thoughts. He felt thankful that he at least had family to look back upon. A part of him felt saddened, Basilio had no such family, that Tazim knew of, that the young boy could reminisce over on bad days. At most, he had Zamir. But even he was gone now.

Basilio finally let go of his friend, the smile on his face never diminishing. Even with the wound across his cheek from that morning's encounter, the grin across his lips illuminated the boys entire face, "Come. You have much to learn, child."

Surprisingly enough to him, Tazim was not difficult to be convinced into following Basilio into foolish situations. In the future, Tazim would ponder on this being only the start of their ridiculous ways and idiotic choices in life.

The Spanish boy had chosen a peculiar stall near the edge of the area. He pulled Tazim aside and explained just how discreet they would need to be. Basilio would be the first, _to set an example_ , as he'd put into words. His hands were fluid, Tazim stared in awe as he walked past discreetly, gifting the vendor with a comfortable remark before walking away just as soon.

His self-satisfied grin was enough to annoy Tazim once Basilio was far enough from the stall, taking a large bite from his stolen apple.

Basilio made it look so simple. Tazim needed only to control his nerves. A task which did not come easily for his current engagement. If only it were that easy for him. Tazim barely made it out by the skin of his teeth. It was no problem for him to be cunning, though for Tazim, he felt a tad sinful and sheepish for stealing from others. His guilt threw him off just long enough for the vendor to chase him away as a thief.

Be that as it may, the adrenaline pumping through his body all the while Basilio shouted and howled as Tazim ran behind him, made Tazim feel quite smug and confident. He could never remember when he'd last smiled so much in a single day.

"You did well," Basilio congratulated, patting his friend on the back, "Good practice."

Tazim grinned, "I will do better next time."

The sun had begun to set, softly across the horizon as the two young men fell into a comfortable stride beside one another. Enjoying not only their delightful treat but each other's company, far from the market.

Though, Tazim eyed his companion with mild disgust. In the dining hall, Basilio was one of the most hygenic and almost elegant people when having his meal. Yet right before him, the young boy bit into his apple much like he'd seen horses do so at the stables on a humid night.

"Are you not hungry?" Basilio asked, a mouthful of apple chunks just waiting to fall out.

Tazim shook his head. He only stole the apple because of Basilio. Tazim himself hadn't been at all hungry. If he had been, Basilio had certainly scared away his hunger. Instead, he gave his half eaten apple to his companion who took it eagerly, with a large grin across his face. Basilio thanked him fervently, stressing just how starved he'd been most of the day. At least that confirmed as to why Basilio ate like a ravenous dog.

"Would you always take a stroll after a theft?" Tazim's voice held a hint of accusation.

Basilio laughed, "No. Oftentimes, I snuck away for a swim." He went on to share how, as a child, he often needed to find ways to occupy himself while his parents were busy elsewhere.

Oddly, Tazim grew fond of Basilio's stories. He enjoyed them more than he had initially thought he would. There were many more things Tazim wanted to know about the Spanish boy. Had he always been so talkative? So quick with his friendship? Had he always held the same boyish smile all his young life? Yet there was a different, more delicate topic of which the young boy had wanted to ask about since that morning.

"Is Zamir a relative?" Tazim lamely asked, wiping his hands on his legs.

"No." Basilio answered, hesitating briefly as he tossed his apple away and wiped his mouth. Tazim knew well that he was buying a few extra moments before his next words, "And that is a terrible way to extract information from me."

Tazim only grinned, "But you admit, I am extracting information."

The briefest, most curious smirk marked Basilio's face before he turned away once more. He could never keep such information away from his new friend. Most possibly the only friend he had now. And Basilio knew he was in no position to turn down any possible chance for a friend.

With the most innocent of gestures, Basilio nodded and gazed curiously at his friend. What he searched for across his face, Tazim wasn't sure. Trust? Faith? Whatever it was, he must have found it. "I was brought to the Order as a boy by my father. Without my mother, he was unable to care for me."

A foreigner from another land, much like himself. Tazim wanted to know more. "You left Valencia?"

Basilio nodded solemnly, every so often a light smile forced it's way against his lips, "We were never close to begin with. Though it never bothered me."

For some reason, Tazim could not comprehend why Basilio would not have been close with his father. Of all things, that is what took him most by surprise. He was unable to imagine the idea. Having one's father so close yet so far. Most possibly, it must have been his own desire for his own father.

"We never saw eye to eye, although I was just a child." Basilio's words came easily to him, easily to tell his friend. "But he was all I had. And then I didn't."

The young boy went on to explain just how desperate his father had been, thrusting his son into the hands of the first Assassin he spotted. Zamir, having been the most unfortunate, was arriving from an assignment that very moment. From then on, the older man had looked after Basilio delicately.

"He raised you?" Tazim asked, curious.

"He was a guardian of sorts," the boy answered sheepishly. He took a breath, smiling after just as quickly and turned to his friend, "And your father?"

There was a part of him, deep within, that wanted to tell Basilio everything _._ A part that wanted nothing more than reassurance from someone, _anyone_ , that all would be well. Basilio had shared a part of himself that night. Tazim wanted, more than anything, to return the favor. He wanted to be comforted and supported. Tazim only wished he had the courage to speak the words that burned against his tongue to be let free. Except, he couldn't. Not yet.

With a subtle nod of his head, Tazim soberly answered with a faint smile on his lips, "He rests."

* * *

 **Took me forever but it is here! Better late than never. Hope you readers enjoy the chapter as it was a bit of a toughie and I'm ready to be rid of it and throw it out to the public! I hope you are all safe and doing well during these times please take care of yourselves!**

 **Feel free to leave any questions or comments, have an awesome day/night see ya next time!**


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